


Call of the Void

by SocialDeception



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Religious, Anal Sex, Cults, Fetishism of Religion, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Oral Sex, Priest Kink, Rimming, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-09-09 13:00:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 68,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8891782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SocialDeception/pseuds/SocialDeception
Summary: After a string of religiously motivated murders, Waylon Park agrees to scout out Leadville, Colorado, to help his journalist friend Miles Upshur. But as things begins to unravel, so does Waylon's own inhibitions as he meets a mysterious deacon with a past that seems as murky as the crimes he's come to investigate.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel I should start by saying that this story is not meant to be a criticism of the Catholic faith, or religion in general, though I'll definitely touch on subjects that might make it seem that way. I'm not trying to insult anyone with this story, and I ask that people read the tags before reading. If you're a very devout Catholic that finds the idea of anyone fetishizing the rituals disturbing/insulting, then this story might not be for you.
> 
> I'm not a Catholic, but I've tried my best at describing the rituals. I've always found them very fascinating. If I've gotten anything wrong, then I'd be grateful for pointers ^^

* * *

  
**L'appel du vide** ; literally _the call of the void_ is a French phrase used to refer to intellectual suicidal thoughts, or the urge to engage in self-destructive behavior during everyday life.  
  


* * *

   
It was one of those quiet mornings in Denver, sleepy like in a much smaller town, and Miles, in a fit of surprising good-will, had bought Waylon his favourite coffee at their favourite coffee house.

He'd barely even gotten a sip in before Miles slid a newspaper across the table so Waylon could take a look at the front page.

"Heard about this?"

Waylon glanced at the headline and grimaced at the picture. He made an affirmative sound, and slid the newspaper back. Of course he had heard about the ritualistic murders just a few hours away from his own hometown. It would have been hard to miss it, as it was plastered across all major newspapers in the country. Nothing sold newspapers like cultists, after all.

"I need you to go over there for me."

“What?” Waylon almost choked on the cup of coffee Miles had thrust in his hands just moments before. An obvious bribe, in lights of what he’d just suggested. “But how? I’m not even a journalist!”

“That’s why it’s perfect.” Miles patted Waylon’s hand and offered him a napkin, which Waylon begrudgingly accepted. “They all know my face, hell, they know it and shun it. I need someone fresh.”

“But-” Waylon started, fiddling with the coffee cup to the point where he finally just put it down. ”Like I said, I’m not a journalist. I have no idea what to do.”

Miles grasped Waylon’s hands in his, cocking his head the way he always did when he tried to convince Waylon to do something.

Which he always somehow managed to do. Fuck.

“That’s the beauty of it,” he explained slowly, blinking innocently at Waylon. “I’ll be with you every step of the way, and you just act like you would’ve normally.”

“Normally I wouldn’t go at all,” Waylon sniffed, and in front of him Miles lit up, already knowing he had won.  
  


* * *

   
The motel, despite its cheerful name, bore more resemblance to a prison ward than a motel, and Waylon stared up at it through his windshield as he pulled up in the parking lot. On his drive there he had driven past a stately looking Victorian hotel, and in comparison the motel in front of him felt distinctly lacking.

He shut the engine off with a sigh, thrumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He was a little apprehensive about this mission Miles had sent him on, truth be told, and the initial impression of Leadville was less than stellar. Sure, it was just a little under two hours away from Denver, but it felt like another world. He felt transported back to the 50s, or some bizarre gold mining movie where the details weren’t quite right.

With another, deeper, sigh, he decided to stop being a child, and shrugged out of his safety belt. The bag he had packed was sparse, most of the weight being contributed by a small laptop and the surveillance equipment Miles had squeezed into the too-small bag.

The air here felt crisp, he’d give it that, and he breathed it in for a few seconds before he pulled the bag over his shoulder and headed into the motel vestibule.

It was worn down like the rest of the motel, the wood paneling of the plastic variety with framed photographs of happier times.

Miles had already reserved a room for him, so all he had to do was to show his passport to the cheerful, middle aged woman sitting behind the desk, who promptly handed him a key -not a key-card- and pointed to the outside in a general direction of the room.

The rooms were located along the confines of the parking lot, and Waylon quickly found the right door and locked himself in. Well inside he dropped his bag a little too hard on the floor, turned the lights on, and took a quick overview of the room.

Well. It was reasonably clean, but that was the best thing he could say about it.

The room was worn down, covered floor-to-ceiling with yellowed pine and all the decor felt like it belonged at least a few decades back in time. If nothing else it had a small kitchenette in one corner, and a small desk in front of the window.

“Silver linings, Lisa,” he mumbled to himself, most of all to ease some of the melancholia that had seeped into his gut, but also to make some noise in the suddenly too quiet room.

He quickly got his laptop up and running, logging onto the less-than-secure motel wi-fi, and called Miles. Miles answered the phone quickly, too quickly, like he had been waiting by the phone all this time.

“Waylon? You there yet?”

“Yeah.” Waylon put his bag next to the bed and wandered off towards the kitchenette. “This motel is a dump.”

He wrinkled his nose as he opened a few of the cabinets, finding old crumbs and something small and black he hoped wasn’t mouse droppings.

“Think I can afford five stars?” Miles scoffed. “No, you’re getting the full-on undercover journalist experience; shitty motels and a stomach rotted by even shittier coffee.”

Waylon looked at the small collection of tea and coffee laid out by the water boiler and nodded his head in agreement. “Seems that way, yeah.”

“I’d ask you to go over to the church tonight, but I suppose that would be a little strange.”

“Yeah, no, I’m not doing that. I’ll go over first thing in the morning.” Waylon peered into the water boiler, happy to find it reasonably clean-looking, and filled it up with water. “So what am I saying, exactly?”

“Just… Just act like your normal tourist with a mid-life crisis and a search for God.”

“Mid-life cri- Miles, I’m thirty! Same as you!”

“Fine, fine, but quarter-life crisis just doesn’t have the same ring to it,” Miles chuckled. “I’ll be up there in a week’s time and see what you got. And hey. at least the church is a short walk from the motel, right?”

Waylon could almost hear the smug contentment that was surely plastered across Miles’ face.

“The fancy hotel down the street would have made for a shorter walk,” Waylon sniffed, and on the other line Miles just laughed.  
  


* * *

  
Leadville seemed nicer in the morning, Waylon decided, taking a turn down the historical district. At least once he got away from the peeling paint and graffiti of the area he was lodging. The red brick, Victorian molding and green trees closer to the center made for a peaceful backdrop, and locals greeted him as he walked past. Maybe this trip wouldn’t be such a disaster anyway.

Still though, when he moved out of the main street and towards his destination, he couldn’t help but feel that the shoddy one-story buildings had something almost depressing about them, like this city was long past its prime.

At least he didn’t have a hard time finding the church, because it had a peculiar roof; tall, white and tapered like a knife towards the sky. It seemed like a strange choice for a place of worship, but what did Waylon know. The closest he had ever come to religion was the half-hearted attempts of his mother during childhood, attempts that had later died down completely, and now the only thing he could remember of church was his father being bored and his mother rolling his eyes.

Up close the church seemed more welcoming, with the same red brick as most of the main street, and he walked up the steps with a strange sort of nervousness. Maybe it was the excess of horror movies Miles had forced him to watch, but he suddenly had this vague fear that he’d burst into flames as soon as he touched the white double-doors.

He didn’t. Of course he didn’t. Instead the doors opened soundlessly into a small vestibule, with a slightly wider set of double doors leading into the actual nave of the church. Waylon took a deep breath and stepped through them.

The congregation were, for the most part, seated up front, so Waylon quietly sank down in one of the pews near the back. It was a cheerful room, if you could say that about a church, the walls a pale yellow contrasting against the white altar and large wooden frames with painted saints. Very far removed from the dimly lit churches from his past.

Thankfully the people up front didn’t seem to notice him, or at last, they didn’t pay him no mind, and his hands felt slightly less clammy when he reached for one of the two leather bond books on the back of the pew in front of him.

At least the worm leather felt the same, and the comforting sense of familiarity calmed him down further. He could do this. And for the first time he kind of felt he really could.

The muted murmuring of the people quieted down as a bald priest entered the church from a room behind the altar. He was an impressive sight, an intricate ornate stole hanging around his neck, and another, younger and simpler clad, priest followed him, carrying a book. When the latter placed the book upon the altar, another two men who looked like twins entered the room with incense and a crucifix.

At the sight of them, the congregation all stood up, and Waylon scrambled to his feet as well, clutching the leather bound book a little harder when they started singing a hymn. Waylon felt his hands go clammy again. He definitely didn’t know of any hymns, and even if he did he wasn’t so sure he’d want to expose the rest of the church-goers to that. Lisa - his heart clenched a little - had always told him that he had the singing voice of something that belonged below ground, and he found himself smiling wistfully at the memory.

The singing finally stopped and the priest stood in front of them, large hands clasped together and an impressive booming voice as he said “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

The congregation followed with an equally enthusiastic “Amen.” before they sat down, Waylon awkwardly following suit. The priest then started talking about something Waylon couldn’t quite follow along with, and his gaze started drifting around the room and the people instead.

Most of the church-goers seemed to be in their early fifties, but there were also younger people present, some holding round-faced toddlers. Waylon looked back up at the priest, at the long black tunic and his ceremonious face. Next to him the younger priest stood silently.

He wore a stole similar to the older priest, but simpler, and tied around his wide chest and down his waist like a sash rather than around his neck. He was tall and looked strong, like he belonged doing something physical and dangerous, not standing quietly with his head bowed in silent worship.

Waylon found his gaze returning to him even when he tried not to.

“I call upon you all to pray,” the elder said, making a gesture to the room and smiled. “Let us pray in silence to become one with our Lord.”

 _Well, I can do that_ , Waylon thought, folding his hands on the pew in front of him and bowing his head.

 _Dear God_ , he started, suddenly feeling more than a little foolish. _I don’t… I don’t know if I believe in you._ He licked his lips. Maybe that wasn’t the right way to speak to God.

It felt like the truth though. He had been curious, about the existence of a God, but after the accident he wasn’t so sure he’d even want to know.

 _I don’t know how this works, and it’s not like you answered my prayers before._ Waylon’s mind blanked for a second before he knew what he wanted to say. _Please let this be different,_ he almost mumbled out loud. _Even if things don’t work out as planned, please let it be different._

He was so caught up in his own mind that he didn’t even notice when the rest of the people started singing again, and he did another awkward scramble to catch up.

The simple clad priest was looking at him when Waylon finally got the book out, his lips slightly tugged in faint amusement, and Waylon found himself reddening. It wasn’t quite the first impression he had aimed for, but hopefully it wouldn’t put a damper on his investigation. He kept his gaze firmly plastered on the yellowing pages of the book, moving his lips in what he hoped was a convincing manner.

After the singing, the others didn’t sit down like before, but remained standing. Waylon lifted his gaze to find the younger priest still looking his way, before breaking eye contact and stepping up to the altar. The older priest had his head bowed and Waylon could see his lips moving in silent prayer, while the other held what looked like a golden lamp with a metal chain extended from the top, from which incense was being burned. Once in his hands, he started swinging it gently back and forth with one hand, crossing himself with the other.

Waylon followed his movement with interest. He might not understand religion, but he’d always found himself somewhat mesmerized by the traditions and rituals.

Once the priest was done swinging the incense, he handed it back to the twins and stepped up to the altar. He paused for a second there, looking out at the room. Then he cleared his throat and started reading the Gospel, which was about the only part of the Bible Waylon actually knew.

His voice was deep and calm, not booming like the other priest, but he seemed to hold the congregation's attention as well as the first.

“Shine forth within our hearts the incorruptible light of Thy knowledge, O Master, Lover of mankind,” he started, looking out on them before continuing. “-and open the eyes of our mind to the understanding of the preaching of Thy Gospel; instill in us also the fear of Thy blessed commandments, that, trampling down all lusts of the flesh.” At those words his eyes flicked slightly Waylon’s way before he continued.

The rest of the sermon was a blur to Waylon, too focused on the oddity of observing something as private as this and the somersaults his stomach was doing at the prospects of doing what Miles wanted. He didn’t even notice the shift in the room as linen was placed on the altar, along with wine and small, round crackers.

Oh. _Oh_. Waylon paled. That meant…

People started moving up in a tight line up to the altar, and Waylon wondered for a second if he should just dash wildly out of the room. He was pretty sure that they wouldn’t take too kindly on a non-believer accepting the holy communion, and he wasn’t sure if they liked him observing either.

See, this was why Miles should have been the one to come here. He’d probably stroll right up and accept the bread and wine without a thought. Not to mention that he’d also be able to prove his status as a seemingly devout Catholic, while Waylon wasn’t even baptized.

The priest started talking again, and Waylon chose that moment to retreat back outside. The church wasn’t stuffy per-se, but the air outside still felt blessfully cool. He gulped it down, cursing Miles for being so insistent and himself for accepting. Maybe he should just come back another day, he still had a week to do this. Well, six days, but who was keeping count? Waylon sighed and sat down on the church steps, watching the sun trail lazily over the sky. Miles would most definitely keep count.

Waylon did as well, in his own way. At first he kept track of the movements of the sun, then the small weeds by his feet, then finally by counting the shingles of the roof across for him.

Finally, after what felt like hours, the doors opened behind him, and the whole congregation poured out the doors at the same time. He stood up as they did, standing stiffly by the side of the small staircase. A few of them nodded their heads at him and smiled, others too busy talking among themselves. Behind them trailed the elderly priest, who patted a few shoulders and kissed the heads of the small children in their parents arms. There was something so peaceful and wholesome about the whole thing, making that piece inside of Waylon clench again.

He waited for the people who start walking down the street before addressing the priest.

“Excuse me, uh, Father,” he started, and the priest turned to him with a smile. “I was wondering if I could ask you a few question about joining this church?”

“Of course, my child,” the priest smiled wider and grabbed his hand. “My name is Father Martin, welcome to our small parish.”

“Waylon Park.”

Oh God, he wasn’t supposed to use a fake name, was he? _Well, too late now_ , Waylon thought with a stiff smile.

“Welcome, welcome,” Father Martin said, clasping Waylon’s shoulder with a surprisingly strong grip, and steered him back into the church. “Now, I have some business to attend to, but I urge you to speak with the deacon.”

Waylon looked up in the direction the priest was pulling him, seeing the tall and somewhat gloomy looking priest peer curiously at him as he drew nearer.

“I’ll leave you to it, I’m sure he will answer any questions you might have.” He gave Waylon’s arm a final squeeze before turning to the other priest. “I trust you’ll take good care of him, my dear boy,” he said. The other priest just gave a small nod.

“What can I help you with…?” He turned to Waylon, and Waylon realized he had to crane his neck a little to look up at him.

“Waylon Park,” he said, extending his hand before thinking better of it, letting it fall limply by his side instead. “I’d like to join the church, Father.”

“Oh, no, I’m a deacon, not a priest. You may call me deacon Gluskin.” He gestured towards one of the doors near the back. “Please, come into the office and we’ll talk.”

Waylon nodded and followed deacon Gluskin down the aisle, and into a sparsely furnished room that more than made up for it with the sheer amount of leather clad books in bookcases covering the room. Gluskin gestured towards one of the leather chairs in front of a desk, before getting seated behind it.

“So,” he started, giving Waylon a short stare before getting papers out. “What brings you to us?”

 _Help,_ Waylon thought desperately, _what would Miles say?_

“I feel lost,” he finally said, settling on the truth. In front of him Gluskin nodded, apparently satisfied with that answer, and he started scribbling something on a piece of paper. He was somehow more baffling up close, what Waylon thought was a short cropped hairstyle turned out to be more like an slightly outgrown undercut. The contrast between the inky black hairstyle and the crisp, white tunic was a little unnerving.

Not to mention how unattainable he looked in all his haughty self-righteousness. Like something more than a man.

“Are you baptized?” Gluskin was staring at him now, scrutinizing him really, his gaze an icy blue that made Waylon squirm a little.

“Uh, no.”

“There’s quite a few steps to becoming a catholic, the first being what we call the period of inquiry,” he paused, as if to allow Waylon to catch up. “This is where you reflect upon your life and receive an introduction to the life and teachings of Jesus Christ.”

“So, do I just…?” Waylon scratched his head, feeling more lost than ever.

“Unless you have someone else in mind, I can be your sponsor, guiding you through the process.” Gluskin shifted, and broke eye contact at last, opening a drawer so he could pull out a small bible. “Here, I suggest you go home and read, and we can meet up tomorrow after mass.”

“Oh, uh, thank you.” Waylon accepted the small book, giving Gluskin a tentative smile. “Looking forward to it.”

Gluskin gave him a smile in return, breaking the severity of his face and making him seem a lot more approachable.

“Tomorrow then,” he hummed, and Waylon promptly stood up with a nod and showed himself out.  
  


* * *

  
“I’m telling you, it just seems like any old church. No scary looking pit in the corner or anything.”

“Oh, Waylon,” Miles sighed and clicked his tongue. “You’re such an innocent little thing. As a professional journalist, I can tell you that most pits are kept in the basement.”

Waylon didn’t respond, just sighed through his nose with an audible huff of annoyance, to which Miles just gave a little laugh.

“Well, what did you expect? No cult in existence will show their true colors on the first day.”

Waylon supposed that made sense, but he still had a hard time picturing Father Martin convincing young people into setting themselves on fire. Then he remembered Gluskin, wide-shouldered and glaring, and he shuddered.

“I’m just not really looking forward to hours alone with that Gluskin guy. He scares me a little.”

Miles laughed. “He’s a deacon, Waylon, how dangerous can he be?”

“Weren’t you _just_ telling me how seemingly harmless things can, in fact, be deadly cults in disguise?”

“Oh, right,” Miles snorted. “I guess I should start writing your eulogy then.”

“You’re such an ass.”

“Keep me posted,” Miles chuckled, before hanging up.

Waylon groaned and tossed his phone on the bed. This was first grade all over again. Miles with his idiotic ideas, and Waylon’s even more idiotic decisions to go along with them.


	2. Chapter 2

After a few too many cups of terrible coffee, Waylon felt about ready to face the daunting aspect of pretending to be someone else, not to mention hours together alone with a man who looked like he belonged somewhere else entirely. Like a prison. Or some lifetime TV show about serial killer priests.

Unlike the previous day the weather was dreary, heavy clouds pushing down on the town who suddenly looked a whole lot emptier. Waylon shrugged and pulled his jacket closer around him. Leadville was like any other once thriving mining town, and Waylon couldn’t quite decide if he liked it or not. On one side it felt comfortable and safe, on the other there was the faint signs of decay, some sort of dreariness that Waylon couldn’t quite shake.

Maybe it was him being used to being anonymous, used to being some face in the crowd. Here he stuck out like a sore thumb, well, that’s to say if a sore thumb got friendly waves and smiles. He wished it didn’t feel so alien.

Beside the odd familiarity of the strangers in the town, he managed to arrive just in time for mass, which he observed in silence, trying to memorize the words. He had tried -oh, how he had tried- to research the Catholic faith the night before, but he had fallen asleep half-way on top of his laptop instead, earning himself quite the attractive keyboard outline on his forehead when he woke up. He touched his forehead gingerly, hoping it had faded completely.

He was so lost in his own mind that he didn’t even realize that the service was over, and that most of the congregation had started walking out of the church, followed by a very eager Father Martin. Waylon overheard talks of a bake sale and flea market, and felt transported back in time again. He didn’t even realize Gluskin was standing next to him before he cleared his throat.

“Oh, deacon Gluskin!” Waylon got to his feet and bowed a little, to which Gluskin gave a stiff little half-smile.

“No need for such formalities, Waylon. Care to follow me?”

Waylon nodded and followed Gluskin into the same office as the day before.

“So,” Gluskin started, sitting down in the leather chair in front of Waylon instead of behind the desk. “How did the first day of your journey go?”

Oh. Shit. Yeah. Waylon supposed _I fell asleep_ wouldn’t go over too well. Was it a sin to lie in church? Of course it was. Had Miles officially condemned him to hell?

“It…” He paused, fidgeting with his hands in his lap, glancing up at Gluskin who in turn glared back with that strange, icy stare. “I just had a lot of my mind,” he finally finished.

“Anything you’d care to discuss with me?” Gluskin got a small, gilded notebook out of the depths of his tunic and Waylon stared at it.

“Off the record?”

Gluskin furrowed his brow and observed Waylon quietly, but put the notebook away. “What’s on your mind?”

“I guess I struggle a little bit with… Well, with the whole concept of-” Waylon squirmed. He couldn’t lie, this was exactly why Miles had been the one to lie to the principal during their school years.

“Yes?”

“Of damnation, and of sin,” Waylon finally blurted out, and in front of him Gluskin looked startled.

“What of it?” He finally asked, though his voice didn’t betray a single emotion.

“If a child is killed-” Waylon had to swallow the lump in his throat. “If a child is killed before being baptized, then it goes to limbo? Even if it hasn’t done anything?”

Gluskin’s face did a strange thing, something like equal parts relief and something pained fluttering over his features, before it again turned stony.

“Firstly, I feel I should tell you that the church neither accepts nor condemns the teaching of limbo,” Gluskin licked his lips. “The church can only entrust them to the mercy of God, as we teach that God wants all people to be saved.”

They stayed silent for a while, Waylon turning what Gluskin had just said over in his head, while Gluskin resumed his silent glare.

“Are you gonna be a priest?” Waylon finally asked.

“No,” he said, stiffly again, like the subject was closed for further questions.

“Why not?”

Gluskin shuffled slightly. “A lot of people stay permanent deacons.”

“Why do you?”

Something dangerous flashed in Gluskin’s eyes, before he regained his stony composure. “I don’t believe this discussion is about my religious journey.”

“I think it would be easier for me to start mine, if I learned of others,” Waylon stuttered awkwardly.

“Very well,” Gluskin gave an uncomfortable frown. “Father Martin doesn’t believe I’m ready, that I never will be, and I’m in no position to argue.”

“Why not?”

Oh, Waylon was on thin ice now, Gluskin looked positively fuming.

“Says I don’t exhibit the right _qualities_ for a priest,” Gluskin spat, something ugly and terrifying in his eyes before he refocused them on Waylon and his brow smoothed out. “So now I spend my free time here, but I keep a little shop for income.” He saw Waylon’s questioning look and sighed. “It’s a family business, I’m a tailor.”

Waylon stared at Gluskin’s bulging upper arms, visible even through the layers of unshapely cloth, and tried to imagine him leaned over a sewing machine. Gluskin must have seen his eyes and mind wander, because his lips were curled in a faint smirk when Waylon looked back on his face. He seemed very different with a smirk, still terrifying, but in a different way. Waylon swallowed thickly and squirmed in his seat.

“Any other questions?” Gluskin leaned forward a little, his voice dropping in pitch. “Of sin?”

Waylon tried very hard to keep his face neutral, but he could feel his eyes bulging a little at the intensity of Gluskin’s stare.

“Are you married, Waylon?” Gluskin continued, leaning back smoothly, casually, like he hadn’t just questioned Waylon about sin at all.

“I was,” Waylon slumped a little. “She passed away.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”

And he almost looked it, but not quite.

“Have you partaken in sexual activity outside the sanctity of marriage?”

Waylon startled and glanced up at Gluskin, finding his expression too intense to keep a focus on.

“No,” he finally answered, feeling a little defeated though he knew this is what the church would want to know anyway.

“Any unsavory thoughts?” Gluskin’s lips twitched in something akin to amusement.

Waylon shot him a sharp look. “Isn’t this reserved for the confessionals?”

“Oh, but you’re not a catholic yet, Waylon,” he paused. “The church teaches us that it is the acting of fantasies that is sinful, not the fantasies themselves.”

“Then yes. Who doesn’t?” Waylon said defiantly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Indeed,” Gluskin mumbled in response, though it seemed mostly for himself. Then he shuffled a little in his seat. “Perhaps this is a discussion better suited for another day.”

“That’s it?” Waylon laughed. “Five minutes of conversation and we’re done for the day?”

“Religion is like a seed,” Gluskin leaned forward again, something dangerous in the way he regarded Waylon. “We have to plant it before we can watch it grow.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Waylon didn’t know why he wanted to challenge the deacon so much, except a need to see the pious facade slip a little further. It didn't look like he belonged here any more than Waylon did.

“Then we’ll have to either nurture it, or simply dig it out completely.”

Waylon didn’t know what to say to that at first. He didn’t even know if he had gotten any closer to what Miles wanted. But he maintained eye contact while getting up and this time he did offer the deacon his hand.

Gluskin paused only a second before he accepted the handshake. His hands were large, easily dwarfing Waylon’s slender fingers, and warm.

“I’d prefer to nurture it.” Waylon bit his lower lip. “If you think there’s any hope for me.”

“There’s always hope,” Gluskin said, letting go of Waylon’s fingers like he was burned, although there was no real fire behind the words.  
  


* * *

  
He chose a quiet steakhouse for dinner, ordering a filet mignon with baked potatoes while he alternated between staring out the window and up at the old-fashioned tin ceiling above him. He felt tired and out of sorts.

There was always this strange kind of awkwardness with eating out alone, something Waylon could never get used to. He had the local newspaper sprawled out on the table in front of him, with a small notebook opened up, though he hadn’t written a single word. Maybe another thing he’d just have to get used to.

He chewed thoughtfully at his salad, not really paying attention. He’d had this idea that he’d show up here and the story would just unravel in front of him, yet things seemed to take a lot longer than he’d ever anticipated. In fact, had he learned anything since coming here, besides obscure tidbits about the local deacon, and the state of cheap roadside motels in the area? He wasn’t so sure, though he knew Miles would just encourage him further.

What he came here to research was a sin. There was no other word for it. A dirty word for the dirty deeds of turning impressionable youth into committing horrifying acts in the name of some god. Waylon wrote the word ‘sin’ in his notebook and underlined it. Once back in the motel he’d have to research what constituted as sin in the Catholic church, and what one might do to seek penance. He sighed and forced himself to finish his dinner, his appetite long gone.


	3. Chapter 3

“How’s my favourite reporter?” Miles teased, ignoring Waylon when he tried to answer. “Got anything for me yet?”

“Other than the fact that the deacon terrifies me? No, nothing.”

Miles made a small hum of disappointment before Waylon could hear shuffling of papers through the phone. “What did you say his name was? I have some information on Father Martin, but not a whole lot. Priest is like freaking Bigfoot, man.”

Waylon ignored his comment on Bigfoot, not willing to open up that can of worms. “Gluskin. Don’t know his first name.”

“Gluskin…” Miles let his voice trail off. “There’s something kind of familiar about that name, I’ll check it out. Just- just keep digging, ‘kay?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Waylon grumbled, ending the call.

He felt naked speaking to Miles out in the streets, like all the people could overhear him and instantly know what he was up to. He’d seen enough horror movies about small communities to know what might happen if you angered them. He shook his head. _Angered them_. What were they, a herd of cows?

He quickly walked the four blocks over to the church, surprised to see Gluskin waiting for him outside. Unlike the previous times Waylon had seen him, Gluskin was now wearing a simple clerical outfit, complete with a white collar. His grim expression seemed to match his outfit.

“Hey!” Waylon greeted, and he could see Gluskin flinch a little. “Uh,” he continued. “I mean, good day, deacon Gluskin?”

“Good morning, Waylon,” Gluskin finally said, his smile a little strained. “I thought, since you’re new here, that we could take a little walk? Maybe it will convince you to move to our little town for good.”

“How’d you know I haven’t bought a house here already?”

Gluskin shot him a little sideways glance. “You don’t come from a small town, do you?”

“That obvious, huh?” Waylon chuckled a little and scratched the back of his neck. “I’m from Denver.”

Gluskin just hummed, and gestured for Waylon to follow him. “The park is just a fifteen minute walk from here, and a good way for you to see Leadville.”

Waylon nodded in agreement and quickened his pace to keep up with him.

“How is your education going?”

“My edu- oh, right, yeah,” Waylon paused. “I was reading about what constitutes as sin in the catholic church.”

Gluskin stiffened, but didn’t slow down his brisk pace.

“I’m-” Wayon swallowed. “I’m a little confused about it. Like, say I murdered someone-”

At his words Gluskin flinched, but quickly regained his composure.

“If I murdered someone, I could be forgiven. But say I loved a man, then God would not forgive me?”

“All sins can be forgiven, as long as you’re willing to seek penance,” Gluskin finally said.

“Does love need penance?”

“Homosexual behaviour is a mortal sin in the eyes of God,” Gluskin’s jaw was working, like he was gritting his teeth. “You cannot pick and choose which of God’s laws you will obey and those you will not. You must obey all of them.”

“What if I convinced others to sin in my place? You said fantasies of sin was not the same as sinning.”

“Convincing others would be a way of living out the sin.”

“What if I acted on the word of God?”

“Then you’d be delusional!” Gluskin snapped before he seemed to think better of it. “God does not encourage sinning.”

Waylon bit his reply back, thinking about the words. It was strange hearing someone like Gluskin say something like that, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on why.

He lulled over the words while letting Gluskin lead him through the streets. It was another beautiful day, and Leadville seemed tranquil and friendly. Waylon had a hard time imagining this as the backdrop from the heinous crimes Miles had been talking about. No, things seemed absolutely peaceful, the rows of brick houses and quaint churches and small store fronts belonging in another time entirely.

“Mind if I…?” Waylon started pulling his small, outdated camera out of his pocket, and Gluskin gave a short nod.

Miles had laughed at his apprehension to use his brand new phone, opting instead to use an old digital camera and an old cell-phone. He’d meant what he told Miles though, it really was too easy to track people nowadays. Something the expensive gear back at his motel room would attest to.

So they walked in comfortable silence, Waylon taking pictures of the sights in the town, even managing to stealthily catch about half of Gluskin’s face without him realizing.

They had walked for about ten minutes when Gluskin stopped, turning stiffly to a gloomy looking storefront.

“This is my shop,” he said, hesitantly, and he didn’t meet Waylon’s eyes.

Waylon wondered for a moment if Gluskin had planned it like that all along, just under the pretense of going to the park. Which in itself had been a strange request, come to think of it.

‘Gluskin’s Clothing and Tailoring’ a sign above the door declared, and through the darkened windows Waylon could see rows of beautiful dresses and expensive looking suits.

“Wow,” Waylon breathed. “You do good work.”

“Mostly on commission, which is how I can afford to spend so much time with the church,” Gluskin hesitated for a moment before speaking again. “Care to see?”

“What, your shop?”

“Yes, Waylon,” Gluskin said impatiently. “My shop.”

Waylon thought he heard the deacon swear under his breath.

“Sure!” Waylon squeaked, wondering if he should send a text to Miles, letting him know he was about to die.

Gluskin quietly unlocked the door, the small bell above giving a cheerful little _tink_ as he opened it. He stepped aside, holding the door open for Waylon, doing a wide swipe of his hand to invite him in.

The shop smelled like wood polish and flowers that almost masked the smell of mothballs. It wasn’t an uncomfortable smell, but rather familiar in a way. The dark wood half-panels and the expensive-looking rococo wallpaper made the place look a lot more upscale than what he’d guessed from the rather simple storefront.

“Whoa,” Waylon breathed, taking in the place. A large ottoman dominated the front part of the shop, but Waylon could see a glimpse of a room further in with a raised section of floor surrounded by mirrors. Every shelf was lined with fresh flowers and an array of veils and tiaras. “It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Gluskin said quietly, running his hand gingerly over the door handle before closing the door. “Here, follow me.”

He crossed the floor and pulled a curtain, exposing a narrow staircase leading upstairs. Gluskin didn’t seem to think the request was strange, just started climbing them, the wood creaking under his weight. Waylon peered up into the darkness with a frown, and a small voice in the back of his mind told him to turn in blind panic and run as far away as he could. Instead he froze completely. Gluskin seemed to realize he wasn’t following because he turned, his brow furrowed.

“You comin’?” He murmured, and there was something different about the way he spoke, the formality giving way to something husky and gravelly.

“Uh, yeah,” Waylon said, ignoring the screaming voice in his head as he started following him up the dark, staring up at Gluskin’s wide back and strong arms, swallowing audibly. If Gluskin turned out to be what he feared, then he’d have no chance to get away, yet his feet still kept on walking.

The staircase led up into a narrow hallway, and Waylon followed Gluskin as he walked through it. The walls had a similar wallpaper as the downstairs, but simpler, and covered in framed photographs. Waylon tried to look at them all as he walked past. Most of them showed landscapes -Waylon recognized Mount Massive on some of them- while others were of a severe looking woman. A few, he realized, were nothing but empty frames.

“Please, sit down,” Gluskin said as they reached a small parlour room, and Waylon sank down in a comfortable looking armchair by a brick fireplace. “Tea? Coffee? I’m afraid I don’t keep anything stronger in the house.”

“Uhm. I’ll have whatever you’ll have?”

Gluskin nodded and disappeared into an adjacent room, giving Waylon the chance to look around the darkened parlour without being watched.

He hadn’t really given any thought about what kind of place Gluskin would be living in, but if he had, it would have been a far cry from the room he was currently in. There was something undeniably feminine about the lace curtains and heavy floral loveseat, a strange contrast to the apparent focal point of the room, a large ornate frame showing a painting of a young woman about to decapitate a man.  
  
Waylon frowned at it and got back up, studying it closer.

It was quite horrific, actually, repulsion even evident on the woman’s face as her knife slid into the man’s neck. And old woman stood beside her, with an open sack, no doubt to catch the head once it was severed from the body.

“Grotesque, isn’t it?” Gluskin said behind him, closer than Waylon would have anticipated, and he gave a start. “It’s the widow Judith, decapitating a general for her people.”

“I’m not sure I could do that for anyone,” Waylon mumbled, turning just in time to see a small crease between Gluskin’s eyebrows before it smoothed back out.

“Sometimes God asks a lot of us,” Gluskin agreed, putting a tray with two steaming cups of tea and a small bowl of sugar on the table between the two armchairs.

The tea smelled good, a warm scent of cinnamon and ginger, and Waylon swirled the tea around in the cup, contemplatively.

“Could you do that? Kill someone?”

Gluskin went very still for moment before answering. “I think everyone has the capacity for murder, given the right circumstance.”

“And if you murdered someone, you could just tell God you were sorry and you would be saved?”

“It’s not enough to _say_ you’re sorry, you have to _be_ sorry. You have to seek penance from God,” Gluskin pinched the skin between his brows. “Why are you here, Waylon, really?”

Waylon stiffened with the cup just an inch away from his lips. “What do you mean?”

“You come here, to Leadville of all places, asking these questions.”

“I thought I was supposed to ask questions? Isn’t that how I become a Catholic?”

“You become one by opening yourself up to God. Your questions are…” Gluskin trailed off in search of the right word. “Hostile,” he finally said, looking at Waylon with that crease back between his brows. “Though if that anger is directed towards God, yourself, or even me I cannot say.”

Waylon had a sip of tea before answering, trying to figure out the right thing to say. “Maybe all three?”

Gluskin shot him a questioning glance. “Why would you be angry at me? If anything-” He cut himself off, his angular face hardening.

“If anything, what?”

“Look, you come here, for some unknown reason, stirring shit up.”

Waylon flinched at the swear word, as it seemed completely alien coming from Gluskin’s mouth. Though looking at Gluskin’s face, eyebrows cinched together and mouth pulled in a sneer, Waylon wondered if it wasn’t more natural than any of the pleasantly formal words he usually spoke.

“And I can’t help feeling like it’s intentional, though I can’t for the life of me understand _why_.” Gluskin’s eyes were trained on Waylon’s face, and Waylon almost felt like Gluskin was able to read his mind.

“I don’t-”

“Why. Are. You. Here?” Gluskin asked again, each word clipped and harsh. It seemed like the more he spoke, the more furious he was getting, and Waylon felt a cold sweat breaking out on his neck.

“I-” Waylon started, his voice sounding shrill. ”I’m here because I have to!” He finally burst out.

Gluskin’s eyes narrowed. “Because you… _Have_ to?”

“I have to believe that I’ll see them again,” Waylon rested his head in his hands. “I have to see them again.”

“Oh,” Gluskin said softly, and Waylon could hear the leather squeak as he leaned back. “I see. I’m terribly sorry,” he spoke the words mechanically and Waylon found it hard to believe him. “Then why all this talk of sin?”

“My sons, they weren’t-” Waylon sank back, cradling the cup of tea like a lifeline. “They weren’t baptized. My wife didn’t-” He frowned into his cup. “I loved her and now I feel like I’m betraying her every day.”

“You said you hadn’t…” Gluskin raised an eyebrow, trailing off deliberately.

“Sometimes I’ll have fantasies-” Waylon knew his face was red. “Sometimes I’ll…”

“You have fantasies about other women?”

“Not… Other women.” Waylon swallowed.

“Oh,” Gluskin said in a breath. “Oh, I see.”

“So, I guess,” Waylon whispered. “That’s why I’m here. Somewhere I can be someone else, someone better.” He wondered why it was so easy to say this to Gluskin. Maybe it was under the pretense of being someone else, a Waylon that wasn’t so cut off from other people. Or maybe because he was telling the truth.

“But you’ve never acted on these impulses?”

“You mean if I’ve ever been with…? No.” Waylon shook his head. “I haven’t.”

“I’m asking if you masturbate,” Gluskin said, and Waylon thought he could see a ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Is that really-” Waylon shook his head. “Why are you asking me this?”

“Because masturbation is a sin, darling.” Gluskin was actually smirking now. “It’s wrong and it’s dirty. Do you feel filthy doing it, Waylon?”

“I don’t know,” Waylon whispered. “Should I feel filthy?”

“Yes, it’s filthy self-indulgence.” Gluskin leaned forward, his teacup long forgotten. “Do you realize that, Waylon? When you put your hands on yourself?”

Waylon stared up at Gluskin and wasn't sure if he imagined the heat he saw flaring in those eyes.

“No.” Waylon sank further into the armchair, his heart hammering in his chest.

“Do you put fingers inside yourself?”

Waylon felt like crying. He felt absolutely mortified, but worst of all he could feel himself responding to Gluskin’s voice. It was like gravel, like velvet, something ricocheting off the walls of his brain and straight to his groin.

“Y-Yes.”

“Filthy,” Gluskin purred. “Do you fantasize about men pinning you down, fucking you raw?”

“God, yes.”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Gluskin warned. “Don’t use His name.”

“S-sorry. Yes, I do. I want it.” Waylon shifted, trying to ease the pressure of his strained cock against his jeans. He hoped Gluskin couldn’t tell from where he was sitting.

“Would you let them fuck you bareback like a filthy slut?”

What were they doing? What was Gluskin doing? Waylon stared at him in unveiled surprise, suddenly aware of the absurdity of the situation.

“Is that-”

“Tell me,” Gluskin demanded, his eyes cloudy. “Would you let them fill you up?”

“Yes,” Waylon choked, and in front of him Gluskin seemed pleased by the reaction.

“You need to be rid of these sins, Waylon,” Gluskin whispered. “You’ve committed mortal sin, and you need to repent.”

“How do I…?”

“Submit.” Gluskin hissed, his fingers digging into the soft leather chair like he was digging them into someone’s hips. Waylon stared at those hands, imagining them digging into his own yielding flesh and the thought made his mind swim.

“I want-” Waylon started, almost giving a groan to the look on Gluskin’s face.

“What is it you want, Waylon?”

“I want-”

“Tell me.”

“I want to go home,” Waylon whimpered, unsure if he meant the motel room or his apartment in Denver.

Gluskin paused for a moment, staring at him. He had that strange look on his face again and Waylon squirmed under the scrutiny.

“Fine, go then!” Gluskin finally barked, making a dismissive wave against the door. “Leave, just like-" he cut himself off with a growl. "Just go!”

Waylon scrambled to his feet, knees knocking against the table as he did. He opened his mouth to say something, anything really, but closed it back up without a word. And then, on very shaky legs, he walked down the narrow staircase and into the brightness of the world outside.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went to midnight mass at the local Catholic church on Christmas eve, and I have to admit I felt a wee bit guilty. But I didn't burst into flames as soon as I entered, so I'm just gonna assume that means I'm not going to hell for this.

* * *

 

He was dreaming.

He knew he was dreaming, because it was impossible that this world was real. Everything around him seemed hazy and surreal, the air fragrant with spices, and he had trouble moving through the fog-like nature of the place. It smelled a bit like the mulled wine his mom would serve around Christmas; that sweet and spiced aroma he remembered from his childhood. But despite this knowledge, he still started thrashing when two large hands encircled his waist from behind.

“Don’t,” a voice behind him warned. It seemed painfully familiar, husky and deep, and Waylon knew he was supposed to know it.

“But-” Waylon started.

“Repent.”

And with that Waylon was pushed forward, his head knocking against something hard. He could feel his skull cracking, skin splitting and hot blood dripping into his eyes, but it didn’t hurt. The blood kept running, someone catching a handful of it and pouring it back over his forehead.

Waylon put his hands up to support himself, and moved them blindly over the familiar indentations in the stone. He knew what it was now, and he didn’t want to look at it, just kept his eyes tightly shut as deft hands pulled his jeans and underwear down to his knees.

“Please,” Waylon started, though he wasn’t exactly sure what he was pleading for. For them to stop? Continue? Do more? He didn’t finish his train of thought, just groaned as something big was pushed against his ass.

“Repent and submit,” the voice hissed behind him.

“But I’m late for church,” Waylon whined, pushing back against the foreign appendix. His pulse was thrumming, a sudden heat pooling in his belly, and somewhere in the distance he could hear the faint sound of sirens getting closer. This was all too familiar, and Waylon felt sick.

“Submit,” the voice repeated, inching into Waylon painfully slowly, and Waylon drooped under it, his mouth opened in a silent gasp. He was certain now, who that voice belonged to, and he wasn't sure if the knowledge made it better or worse.

It was a miracle, really, how the body could make up these feelings when he hadn’t experienced it before. But he was certain, absolutely certain, that this would be how it felt like to be claimed and parted by someone else.

The sirens were getting closer, closer, closer, until there was nothing but the sound of it, and the hot claiming of someone or something behind him. Then he bucked back against the intrusion, feeling the hot coil in his stomach finally release.

Waylon woke up climaxing and spent the rest of the night staring stiffly onto the ceiling.  
  


* * *

  
Waylon let the first two calls from Miles go straight to voicemail. He wasn't quite ready to speak with him. He kept staring down at his barren notes, wondering if he had anything relevant to add at all about the case. Somehow he doubted tidbits on how the deacon both terrified and excited him would meet Miles’ journalistic standard.

The third time Miles called, he realized he had to take the call, lest Miles called the FBI and send them over here.

“Hi, Miles,” Waylon sighed and dumped down on the bed.

“‘ _Hi, Miles_ ’?” Miles started and Waylon could tell he was mad. “Where the fuck have you been? I thought you were fucking dead, man, I even called the fucking hospital!”

“Sorry, I-" Waylon scratched the back of his head. He suddenly remembered why he didn't want to answer the phone. He couldn't lie, not to Gluskin, not to himself, and not to Miles. "I'm kinda scared."

“What? Did something actually happen?”

Waylon curled up in embarrassment. How could he explain this without sounding like a weirdo?

“I’m pretty sure that Gluskin guy tried some weird kind of sex game with me yesterday," he finally admitted. He kept his eyes closed, like that would somehow lessen the embarrassment.

Miles stayed quiet for all but three seconds, bursting into a hysterical giggle-fit. Waylon should have known.

“Weird sex game?" he finally snickered. "Did you guys fuck in the confessional?”

“No. Apparently I can’t go in there unless I’m an actual catholic.”

“Wait, _that’s_ the part you chose to focus on? What the fuck happened?”

Waylon stayed silent for a moment and wondered if he should mention the dream at all. Probably best to skip it.

“He told me I was filthy for being what I am.”

“Did he spank you?” Miles deadpanned without missing a beat.

Waylon burst out laughing at that. “Yes, Miles, I got spanked by the fucking deacon.”

“So he pulled the standard religious bullshit about sexuality, what did you expect?”

“It was more than that. He asked if I wanted to be fucked raw like a dirty slut.”

“Oh,” Miles said. “That _is_ weird.”

“Yeah,” Waylon agreed. “I don’t wanna be around him, it’s starting to creep me out.”

Good. That was good. It wasn't a lie, even though it wasn't the whole truth. Miles seemed to buy it.

“I’ll be there soon. Can’t you just, like, focus on Father Martin or something?”

Waylon briefly wondered if he could get close to the church without bumping into Gluskin. If timed right, then maybe. It wasn’t just what happened the previous day, it was the dream and everything. Gluskin made him feel strange, like he couldn’t trust himself around him.

“I really don’t wanna be near that guy again though,” Waylon huffed. “Did you get the pics?”

“Yeah, but you didn’t give me much. I’ll keep looking around, just- please stay put, okay?”

“Fine, Waylon sighed. “I’ll go along with your shit like I always do.”  
  


* * *

  
He waited until he knew mass was almost over before talking all the backstreets he remembered to the church, avoiding the street where Gluskin’s shop was altogether.

Once close enough he hid in a small alley between the row of houses across the street from the church, staring at it until his eyes watered. Then, half an hour after the congregation left, Gluskin exited the church as well and Waylon ducked down, heart pounding.

Gluskin wore the same type of clerical outfit as he had been wearing the previous day, fabric pulled taut over his upper arms and across his back, and Waylon watched as he disappeared down the street. He wasn't sure what to make of him at all. Or rather, what to make of his own thoughts concerning the man.

He ignored the weird feeling in the pit of his stomach, and counted slowly to one hundred before he finally crossed the street and entered the church.  
  
The smell hit him first. That sweetly spiced scent from his dream, though in real life it was mixed with the smell of old wood and dusty old books. He'd never been a church-goer, yet the smell seemed comforting. Another thing he wasn't sure what to make of.

He shook the feeling off, and after a quick glance into the nave of the church to make sure he was alone, he looked over the message board in the reception room. It had the itinerary for the church, along with announcements for special events, the aforementioned bake sale being set up later that day. Pinned near the top was a badly photocopied photo of Father Martin and a tall man in a sharp suit.

Waylon squinted at the grainy text under the picture, and managed to make out ‘Our benefactor, Jeremy Blaire’. He cast another look into the church before quickly getting his camera out and snapping a quick shot of it.

Hey, maybe Miles was right. Maybe he could be cut out for this journalistic detective life after all. There was something exhilarating about it. He stuffed the camera back in his pocket before entering the church, letting his hand trail across the wooden pews. Truth be told, he almost hoped Gluskin was the only deviant here, because the small church and the people that went here all seemed very nice. It would be a shame if it was all a cover.

He already knew which door lead into Gluskin’s office, and which one that lead into the bowels of the church, so he tried knocking on the third door in the back.

“Come in!”

Waylon fumbled for the small listening device he had attached to his chest before he opened the door slowly, relieved to find Father Martin sitting alone behind his desk. This room was more richly decorated than Gluskin’s, a large crucifix adorning the wall behind the priest, icons hung in a pattern around it.

“Hello, Waylon, my child and welcome,” Father Martin said warmly. “Sit down, sit down, what can I do for you?”  
  
Waylon awkwardly slid into the chair, and tried to smile. “I couldn’t help but notice the bake sale later today, is that open for everyone?”

“Oh, yes. Of course. You’re more than welcome. Gluskin will be here as well, if you feel the need for a familiar face.”

“I’ll try to make it."

A plan was rapidly forming in his head, and he almost felt sad for saying he'd try to make it even though he had no intentions of actually going. He fell into his own head, staring at the items on the priest's desk without really seeing them, until Father Martin cleared his throat.

“How is your journey coming along?”

“It’s been, uh, informative.” Waylon shook his head and tried to keep himself from blinking wildly. “Actually, I kind of wanted to talk to you about something, if you have the time.”

“Of course,” Father Martin furrowed his brow a little. “What’s on your mind?”

“I keep reading about horrible things happening.” He licked his lips nervously. “Religious people doing horrible things in the name of God.”

“Ah, yes,” Father Martin grew serious. “There will always be false prophets misleading those weak of mind. Pay it no mind, Waylon, do your part in making the world a more righteous place.”

“I couldn’t help but notice that it’s happened right here in Leadville as well.” Waylon watched as Father Martin’s face fell a little.

“You mean the cult, don’t you?”

“Yeah, kids being lured in, killing themselves.” Waylon leaned forward, studying the priest’s facial expressions under the guise of being distraught. “Right here, in what seems like such a God-loving and God-fearing place.”

“It’s true, the young of our community-” Father Martin paused and brought a handkerchief up to dab at his eyes. “It’s tearing us apart.” He gave a long, shivering sigh. "After the first, I thought-" he paused before continuing. "I was naive, and I thought it was a freak accident of sorts. Then another person, a child, turned up dead, and I no longer knew what to think. Or do. I've turned to God for his guidance, but I won't lie to you, Waylon. It's been very hard."

“I’m sorry,” Waylon whispered, but Father Martin just waved at him.

“No, no, you’re eager to join our community, only fair that you want to know more about us. The good _and_ the bad.”

Waylon felt a stab of guilt and quickly got up. “I’ll try to come back later, if not, then I’ll be here bright and early tomorrow.”

“Very well,” Father Martin smiled, though his eyes were still glossy. “I hope you have a pleasant evening in our little town no matter where you choose to go.”

“I will,” Waylon waved his goodbyes, knowing that he most certainly would not.  
  


* * *

  
He felt drunk coming out of the dark church, drunk with a sudden need to dive into the unknown. Dive and jump and swim and just… Just do. He felt alive again.

He fished his phone out of his pocket and dialed Miles’ number before the more sensible parts of his brain had the chance to butt in.

“Miles, hey, does the name Jeremy Blaire mean anything to you?” He blurted out as soon as he heard Miles accept the call, not even waiting for him to greet him.

“Fuckin' knew you’d come through, brother,” Miles had the audacity to do a whooping sound and Waylon could hear him rifle through papers. “Hey, can I call you later? I know I’ve heard that name somewhere, just have to confirm it.”

“Sure. I’m gonna break into the deacon’s house though, so I gotta mute my phone for a while.”

“You’re gonna do _what_?!”

Waylon hung up before Miles could get any objections in.

Wow, times really did change.


	5. Chapter 5

It was one of those clear and balmy summer's evenings, perfect for bake sales in sleepy little towns, but maybe not so perfect for breaking and entering. If Waylon had any say in the matter then he'd wish for foggy streets and darkened corners; Perfect for hiding in the shadows and disappear from public view.  
  
He waited until just an half hour before the bake sale, sneaking through what alleys he could find to reach Gluskin’s shop. The streets seemed oddly desolate again, and Waylon hoped he hadn’t got the time wrong and the sale had already started. At least there were less prying eyes to spot him, though he imagined he looked suspicious enough to be spotted from miles away.

Gluskin’s shop looked as empty as the streets, the windows dark as he slowly walked up to the door. If he was a smart man, then he’d wait for another client to come by, but he wasn’t so sure if anyone would in the short time span he had.

He put the cheap umbrella he’d bought under his arm, freeing his hands so he could shield his eyes and peek inside.  
  
The shop was empty, just like he had expected.

Opening the door would be the real tricky part, provided the door was unlocked at all. Waylon’s blood was rushing in his ears as he carefully tried the door handle, and in a final rush that almost felt like a release in itself, the door opened. He carefully extended the umbrella, pressing it against the bell as he slipped soundlessly into the crack in the door. Once it was shut behind him, he inspected the lock, pleased to find it was a spring latch bolt. It would make exiting a whole lot easier.

The interior was cool, that same smell of fabric and wood polish, and he walked quietly through the store in search for a place to hide.

The front part of the shop was mainly dresses and suits on an array of mannequins and shelves, so Waylon walked into the mirrored room he’d seen the previous day, startling himself as his own reflection was played back at him in different angles. He didn't have time to laugh at his own skittishness, because he suddenly heard heavy footsteps somewhere above his head.

He didn’t want to imagine what Gluskin would do if he found him hiding in the dark, so he slipped behind one of the full length mirrors, squatting so he could peek out near the bottom. What was it about this case that made Waylon jump into things? He wasn't sure. And God knew he'd spent enough time helping Miles with cases, imaginary or not, to know he rarely felt compelled to throw himself off a cliff for it.

It didn’t take long before Gluskin started walking down the staircase, whistling and singing quietly to himself, before appearing through the lace fabric.

He was dressed in a suit this time, the vest tapered nicely down his waist, and he seemed oddly cheerful. Waylon didn’t have time to examine the conflicting emotions surrounding the other man, because Gluskin walked straight for the door, opening and then closing it behind him. Waylon heard the metallic click of the lock go into place, and Gluskin disappeared from view. He'd made it. He had actually managed to break into someone's shop and home. He realized he shouldn't be so excited about that fact.

Waylon sat alone in the dark for a few minutes, feeling slightly sick and elated all at once, before finally daring to cross the floor and climb up the staircase.

He had his camera out, and as soon as he entered Gluskin’s private residence, he tried to capture most of what he’d already seen; The severe looking woman in the photographs, the empty frames and the horrifying painting above the fireplace. The place looked different in the dark, shadows appearing on the walls when Waylon walked past. It had seemed... Well, Waylon wasn't about to say the place had felt _cheerful_  the last time he was here, it had possessed a certain melancholic quality even when illuminated, but the melancholia gave way to something frightening in the dark. He had a terrifying thought that all the furniture were watching him quietly, the shadows playing over them making it seem like every table and every chair was moving slightly, like they shifted while he lost his focus on them. He felt himself start to sweat.

This wasn’t quite like the time in junior high where Waylon and Miles had convinced Lisa and her friend to break into their school so they could smoke cigarettes on the roof. He had a feeling Gluskin was behind what Miles was trying to uncover, and getting caught would mean more than just detention.

He opened the first door he came to, and blinked against the sudden light.

A bathroom. A meticulously clean bathroom where nothing seemed out of place. It seemed blissfully normal, and Waylon relaxed as he entered.

Waylon tip-toed over to the sink, opening the medicine cabinet. He whistled to himself when he saw the contents. There were the usual things, sure, toothpaste, hair gel and few spare bottles of hand-soap, but also a huge array of medicine bottles, placed neatly side by side, the label facing out.

‘Gluskin, Edward’

Huh, so his name was Edward.

He started reading the names of the drugs, but the names didn't tell him anything, so he started taking pictures of the various bottles instead. Would be easier to study the names later with a medical dictionary. He cast one last look on Gluskin’s name before closing the cabinet carefully. He cast one last glance at the room before exiting, closing the door behind him.

Avoiding the windows, he quietly moved across the floor and slipped past a door left ajar. He was no expert, but he figured it would be too risky to turn the lights on, so he held the camera up, using the light display for navigation, while he walked further into the room.  
  
At first he didn't see anything but darkness, until he saw a vague silhouette in front of him; Nothing more than a slightly lighter form in a sea of black. He felt sweat trickling down the small of his back, his scalp tightening uncomfortably. It seemed familiar, yet at the same time horribly wrong. He saw shapes and shadows where there shouldn't be, and it almost didn't surprise him when the weak light from the display illuminated a face in the darkness.

Whoever it was didn't say anything, just stared at Waylon with horrible lifeless eyes and a mouth contorted in a wide grimace.

Waylon had to contain a shriek as he fell backwards, landing awkwardly on his tailbone. He gasped at the impact, pausing for just a fraction of a second before he scrambled out of the room. He crawled blindly along the floor in the living room, finally finding the floral couch so he could hide behind it. His heart was hammering so violently in his chest that he was sure whoever was in that room could hear him.

He peeked around the edge of the couch, staring at the doorway with eyes that had started to water with the strain. His lungs were contracting painfully when he tried to control his own breathing. He wasn’t entirely sure how long he stayed there, but his wheezing breath and hammering heart finally calmed down enough for him to start to think calmly.

Whoever had been in that room wasn't following him, and he had a sudden, horrible thought that he might have stumbled into Gluskin’s corpse-chamber or something similar. Maybe he'd come across Gluskin's mother or something. He shakily got back up on his feet, and walked stiffly across the living room floor and back into the room.

The hand holding the camera was more shaky than the first time, but he soon found the face in the darkness and he stared at it with a frown.

A mannequin. Of course.

He followed the walls and realized with a start that the entire room was filled with them. Some of them had the horrible painted on grins and weird hair, others were completely blank-faced. He wasn’t sure which one he liked less. In the far end there was a table with a sewing machine, rolls of expensive looking fabrics, and various doll parts that was surrounded by paint and gauze.

After securing a few shots of the room, he backed out into the living room.

He ignored the kitchen, going to the final room instead, and he had to mentally steel himself before opening the door to what could only be Gluskin’s bedroom.

The light was already on, and at first glance it seemed, well, almost like a hotel room. A very old hotel room. The intricately carved canopy bed was placed on one side of the room with a dresser opposite it, and two nightstands. It was easy to guess which side of the bed Gluskin slept on, because there was a small stack of books on one of the night stands with a pair of reading glasses on top of them.

Waylon crossed the floor and walked over to it, smiling gently at the thought of Gluskin with glasses. He touched them gingerly before letting his hand trail across the thick, woven bedspread.

After a quick photo of the books, and a peek into the drawer, he pulled away and lifted the bedspread so he could look under the bed. Nothing. Not even a lonely little dust bunny. Waylon suddenly felt like slob. His apartment was nowhere near as clean as Gluskin kept his place.

It had been a very uneventful sleuthing experience, he realized, but he imagined Miles would make his own theories based on the mannequin room alone. He almost forgot about the dresser until he reached the door.

Of course, the _dresser_.

He opened the heavy doors, and his jaw went slack when he saw the content.

Sure, on one side you had the normal things you’d expect from a priest; everyday wear, nice suits, a wide selection of priest garbs and polished shoes. On the other side, _well._

Waylon pulled the first box out of the dresser and put it on the bed so he could inspect it better.

He had to contain another whistle, because he had never seen that much porn outside a specialty store. He picked up the first magazine, staring at the man on the cover. He kind of looked like Waylon, same raggedy blonde hair and wide, grey eyes, though Waylon wasn’t sure he’d ever worn quite that expression before. He had to pull his eyes away from the slightly surreal sight of himself with a dick in his mouth, flipping through the other magazines.

The porn got significantly more intense the further down in the pile he got. Mostly cross-dressing, but quite a few BMSM magazines as well, and even a few with men dressed like priests. One thing they all had in common: They were all gay magazines, not a single woman in sight. Waylon felt a slight shudder that had nothing to do with breaking and entering go down his back.

He got a quick shot of the contents, hiding the magazine with the man who looked like him from the camera. No reason to give Miles ammunition, after all.

After placing it back where he found it, he reached for the next box, finding much of the same, with the addition of a ball-gag and some truly ominous looking clamps still in their packaging. He kept photographing the contents, simultaneously wanting and not wanting to know what Gluskin did in his spare time.

On the final shelf, down by the floor, was a big leather bag, and he pulled it out on the floor. Unclasping the lock, he folded the flaps open and stared at the content. He already knew it would be an antique doctor’s bag, but the content looked brand new. The knives and scalpels glinted in the light as if polished, and the suturing kit was opened, showing that one of the curved needles were missing. Underneath a bundle of gauze was a collection of crumpled photographs and Waylon unfolded them carefully.

The first photograph showed two men, the tallest with his arm over the smaller man’s shoulders. They looked related, with strong, angular faces and jet black hair. They weren’t smiling, their eyes narrowed like they didn’t like the photograph being taken.

The next was of a young boy, right in that awkward age where round cheeks gives way to definition, his black hair ruffled across his forehead. He realized with a start that it had to be Gluskin, that same serious expression on his face, not at all fitting for a young boy.

These must be the photographs missing from the frames, though Waylon didn’t quite understand why Gluskin would have removed them.

The rest were more of the same, the two men and Gluskin, in various everyday shots. One stood out, where an even younger Gluskin was on the severe looking woman’s lap -Gluskin’s mother, if Waylon had to guess- the only picture where Gluskin was smiling. He looked cute when he smiled, a grim contrast to the sadness in the other pictures.

He shakily got a few shots, his stomach churning, before he pushed it back where it came from. For the first time he felt unclean, wiping his hands on his jeans before getting up.

In hindsight it had been a terrible idea to leave the bedroom door closed behind him, because that meant he wasn’t aware that Gluskin had come home until he heard his heavy footsteps on the other side of the bedroom wall.

The second he heard Gluskin he felt all the blood leave his face, and he froze like a deer in headlights. He hadn’t quite spent time wondering how long the bake sale would last, and he realized with a sickening tug to his insides that he really should have.

Gluskin was humming by the time he came into his living room, and Waylon quickly got on his hands and knees, crawling under the bed and covered it back with the bed spread as well as he could. From the bathroom of the kitchen - he wasn’t sure - he could hear water running.

He was sweating by the time Gluskin came into the room. His heart had gotten a strange staccato rhythm and he pushed his fist against his chest, willing it to slow down.

Somewhere in front of him, Waylon heard the snapping of something, probably suspenders, and he was ashamed to admit that he flattened himself against the floor, trying to catch a glimpse of Gluskin as he undressed.

At first he didn’t see anything besides black fabric, before Gluskin moved and Waylon realized he had been staring at the back of Gluskin’s ankles. Too close, far too close. Gluskin was still humming slightly, unbuttoning his vest and folding it over a clothes-hanger. Waylon wasn’t surprised at how meticulous he was, considering the rest of the apartment, but he still found himself mentally shouting at Gluskin to hurry up.

He didn’t. Instead he unbuttoned his white dress shirt painfully slow, allowing Waylon small glimpses of his torso every time he moved his large hands to unbutton another.

Finally Gluskin pulled his shirt off, revealing a wide, muscular back. Waylon covered his mouth with the back of his hand, watching the subtle play of muscles beneath soft looking skin as Gluskin moved. Once he shifted in the light, Waylon could see pale lines criss-crossing on his skin, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it as Gluskin turned. The movements were so swift that Waylon only caught a glimpse of a narrow waist and a toned stomach before he felt the bed dipping with the added weight.

Well, he’d had a vague sort of fantasy of being beneath Gluskin, though this wasn’t entirely what he had in mind.

The room went dark and then very quiet, and Waylon relaxed, hoping that meant Gluskin would soon be asleep. When he heard the first groan, he was certain that it was a trick of the mind, something his terrified and aroused brain had conjured up to fuck with him, until he heard it again. Definitely a groan. Waylon wasn’t even aware he was hard until he realized he was grinding into the floor.

Gluskin shifted above him, causing the bed to creak a little, and another deep groan, though this time it was more like a growl.

_Oh God._

Waylon felt himself hardening further when he realized what Gluskin was doing, and he bit down on his palm to prevent himself from groaning along with him. He worked his hand between his body and the floor, thrusting against his hand, his whole body thrumming.

He could hear Gluskin breathe now, ragged and deep, and he pictured hearing those sounds close to his ear. Feel warm breath against his skin, the vibrations when Gluskin mumbled filthy things in his ear.

“Fuck,” Gluskin growled above him, and Waylon jolted against his own hand. It was as if Gluskin knew he was there, reading his mind, playing into his fantasies.

God, he was fucked up. Breaking and entering was bad enough, he wasn’t sure what kind of punishment one would get from masturbating under a deacon’s bed.

It almost made him angry, Gluskin had acted all high and superior when Waylon admitted to masturbating. Maybe that made it better, the fact that Gluskin wasn’t allowed to do this, it was definitely wrong, definitely a _sin_ for him to fuck into his own fist like he was probably doing. The aroused anger definitely made things better for Waylon.

Waylon wished he could climb into bed with him, replace Gluskin’s fist with his own mouth. He tried to imagine how Gluskin would taste, how he’d tangle his fist in Waylon’s hair and thrust into Waylon’s hot and willing mouth until he spilled all over his face.

Waylon shuddered and came, riding through his orgasm in near perfect silence. Above him he could hear Gluskin giving a guttural moan before coming as well.  


* * *

  
Waylon kept dozing on the hard floor after they had both climaxed. The excitement and terror of the day had drained him, and the mind-numbing orgasm had left him pleasantly drowsy. He was too afraid to check the time on his phone, so he stayed under the bed until Gluskin's breathing had become slow and regular.

His arms were shaking when he pulled himself out from under the bed. He kept each movement slow and measured, and he imagined he looked like the losing part of two cats fighting, slinking away in awkward slow motion.

Luckily Gluskin had left the door to the bedroom ajar, and Waylon glanced over to Gluskin's shape on the bed, pausing for a moment before he finally exited the bedroom.  
  
With steps that were as light as a feather, Waylon moved through the hallway and down the stairs. He pictured every floorboard creak under his own, admittedly subtle, weight, but everything was quiet, like the world held its breath with him. He repeated the trick with the umbrella, which was a lot harder the other way, and he made sure to activate the spring latch before he shut the door behind him  
  
The temperature had dropped in the hours he'd spent in Gluskin's apartment, and the air felt like pure medicine to his lungs. He ran the few blocks over to the motel and unlocked his door with trembling hands.  
  
He didn’t sleep well that night.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~I'm sorry in advance for the blasphemy in this chapter.~~

* * *

  
When he woke up the next morning, he spent an hour staring at the ceiling, unsure whether to laugh or cry. The past few days seemed impossible in the bright sunshine of the day, in fact, nothing seemed real at all. The idea that he had somehow come to Leadville to find clues about a mythical cult seemed ludicrous, and jerking off underneath a masturbating deacon seemed, well, even more unbelievable and idiotic.

Waylon had almost convinced himself it was just a dream until he threw his feet down on the floor and found his eyes immediately drawn to his cheap camera propped on the nightstand.

Right.

With a sigh he took the camera over to his laptop and plugged it in. While the photographs transferred he made himself a strong cup of coffee and rubbed a hand over the scruff on his face. He really needed a shower and a shave. And healthier eating habits. He stared at the box of donuts longingly before he opted for one of the apples he had bought in a fit of self-loathing.

Once he sat back down with his meager loot, he found the photos transferred and ready to examine. He sent them off to Miles first of all, with a simple caption of ‘Den of Sin’, before looking through them.

His heart sped up just from the first innocent ones in the hallway, remembering the terror of almost being found out and the thrill of getting out undetected. He stopped at the medical bottles and opened up a new tab and got an updated medical database up and running.

After a few minutes, he saw a pattern.

The pills in Gluskin’s medicine cabinet were a mix of antipsychotics, anti-anxiety drugs and antidepressants. Waylon leaned back in his chair, scratching the back of his neck. Well, that complicated things, surely. Not that it necessarily meant anything, Waylon had been on antidepressants and antianxiety drugs after Lisa and the kids- He swallowed. But this mix of medication teamed with the deacon’s strange mood swings? He felt a small, unfair twinge of worry.

He quickly looked through the rest, cheeks reddening at the sight of Gluskin’s bed and stash of pornographic magazines. He was just about done looking through them when Miles called.

“I take it you saw the pics?” Waylon chuckled.

“Holy shit, dude, you went in there?” Miles’ voice wavered for a second. “I looked through the pics expecting your corpse or something, you scared the shit out of me.”

“So what you think?”

“A sexually confused deacon with mental illness and mommy issues? I dunno, Waylon, what do _you_ think?”

“A lot of people have mental illnesses.” Waylon chewed on his thumb nail. “Doesn’t make them killers.”

“No, sure, but it’s quite the coincidence, don’t you think?” Miles stabled something together loudly, like he was hitting the damn thing. “I’m gonna try getting up there sooner. I feel like shit sending you up there alone.”

“What do I do now?”

Miles sighed before answering. “I dunno, Waylon. Stay put? I’m not sure it’s worth it for you to get close to this guy.”

Waylon briefly wondered if he should mention Gluskin jacking off, but decided against it. Talking about how they had come together might not be a good bonding moment.

“Any more missing kids?”

“Yeah, name’s William Hope, if you can believe it, fucking ironic, huh?” Miles chuckled humorlessly. “Anyway, he’s older than the others, his mother just reported him missing.”

“Shit... “ Waylon had hoped that his presence would at least hinder some of the cult’s activity, at least if Gluskin was behind it. Maybe this was proof that he wasn’t.

Waylon had another sip of coffee and grimaced.

“Coffee killing you yet?” Miles said dryly on the other side of the phone as soon as he did.

“How’d you-?”

“I’m a reporter, Waylon, it’s my job,” Miles said with a snort. “I’ll see you soon, stay safe.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Waylon even waved his hand dismissively until he realized Miles couldn’t see him anyway.

He hung up feeling both heavier and lighter than before. Things would be a lot less confusing with Miles around, but it still left a few days. Maybe the smart thing would be to just barricade himself up in the motel room like Miles seemed to want him to do, and stay put until Miles arrived.  
  


* * *

  
In the end he went back to the church. Of course he did. Because just as every road he’d taken in his life had led him here to Leadville, all the streets of Leadville took him to the church. He felt a sick kind of calling to it.

He swallowed thickly as he drew nearer, the knife edge pointed firmly to the sky. He wasn’t sure what he expected, only that he needed to go.

His heart was hammering in his chest by the time he opened the doors, his stomach clenching and unclenching sickly.

The building was dark, except lit candles along the sides of the church, lighting up the pews and flickering over the crucified statue of Jesus over the altar. It seemed a lot different like this, without the smiling people and the toddlers and the giving of prayers. This time it was almost eerie. He walked slowly down the nave, before he paused near the altar.  
  
Standing here, staring up at the face of Christ, his body aching, he wondered if it wouldn’t be easier to just let it all go and submit himself completely. Maybe this could be the answer to his problems.

Then the hairs on the back of his neck rose, and he knew he was no longer alone.

He turned, seeing Gluskin enter the church. Near the entrance he put his hands in a small basin by the doors, crossing himself with glistening fingers.

“The holy water is a reminder of baptism. We wash ourselves clean of venial sin,” Gluskin frowned and looked thoughtfully down at his fingers. “Though I think I’d have to swim in it to be clean.”

“I-” Waylon took a step back.

“What does it take to make you clean? Free of filth and corruption?” Gluskin had his face lowered, lights flickering across his features until Waylon couldn’t tell what expression he wore. “You’re not ready yet, you cannot receive your baptism, so what will it take?”

Gluskin kept his strides even, despite how much Waylon tried to put distance between them.

“You want me to wash you clean, Waylon? Is that why you came here?”

“What? No?” Waylon’s lower back knocked against the altar and he realized he had nowhere to go. Had he ever?

“No? But imagine it, Waylon. A sprinkling of water and you’re free. Forgiven for all the filthiness of your sinful little heart.”

“You said that wasn’t how it worked.” Waylon struggled to keep his voice even as he stared up at Gluskin’s face. It didn't tell him much because Gluskin's face was like a mask again, not a single emotion in eyes that suddenly looked more black than blue.

“So you’re not sorry for sinning, Waylon?”

“I don’t think love is a sin,” Waylon stuck his chin out defiantly, but flinched when Gluskin reached for his face.

“Ah,” Gluskin trailed fingers that were still wet from holy water across Waylon’s jaw. “So when you touch yourself, it is to the thought of _love_?”

“I-” Waylon shuddered at the touch. “-don’t know.”

Gluskin hummed and wrapped his other hand back behind Waylon’s neck. Waylon swallowed nervously when he got the sudden realization that the deacon might actually kiss him, and he went slack against his touch, angling his face up to his.

He didn’t kiss him.

“Is sodomy love,” he whispered instead, face inches away from Waylon’s. “Is it love when you finger yourself thinking about being defiled by other men?”

His voice seemed to bury itself in Waylon’s brain, his touch like fire across his skin. Maybe this was a sin, he couldn’t see how anything that wasn’t could feel this good.

“Not _anyone_ ,” Waylon gasped the confession against his skin, grabbing on to Gluskin’s forearms.

“It’s a _sin_.”

He opened his mouth to answer, but all that slipped past his lips was a drawn-out moan as Gluskin’s fingers fisted in his hair.

“It’s my duty,” Gluskin pressed his thumb against Waylon’s chin, opening his mouth slightly. “To save you, Waylon. To free you.”

And with those words he held on to Waylon firmer as he pulled him over to the baptismal font, knocking his body crudely against the old stone.

Waylon whimpered, but kept quiet, watching Gluskin intently as he put his fingers into the water. He left them there for a moment, spreading his fingers out in the water, and he watched his own fingers thoughtfully before raising them up to Waylon’s face.

"By this Holy water and by your Precious Blood, wash away all my sins O Lord,” Gluskin put his fingers to Waylon’s forehead. “Say it.” The fingers around Waylon’s neck tightened.

“By this h-holy water and by you-” Waylon stammered, jerking when Gluskin pressed his wet fingers to Waylon’s lower abdomen.

“Continue,” he sneered, moving his fingers over to Waylon’s shoulder.

“Y-your blood, wash away my sins O Lord,” he finished.

“That was good. It wasn’t perfect, but it was good,” Gluskin murmured, pressing his fingers to the opposite shoulder, before putting them back into the baptismal font. “What can I do to make you remember the words?”

He didn’t ponder it for long, putting his fingers back on Waylon’s forehead, the water dripping down his face. Waylon blinked the water out of his lashes, staring up at Gluskin’s face, but Gluskin seemed too preoccupied with the wet trail his fingers was making down Waylon’s cheek to notice.

The air shifted around them, Gluskin running the tip of his fingers carefully across Waylon’s bottom lip. His face shifted too, somehow, his expression softening as he quietly watched Waylon’s face.

“Ed-” Waylon started, but Gluskin silenced him by slipping two fingers into his mouth.

His fingers pressed insistently down on Waylon’s tongue, and Waylon gasped against them. Gluskin was staring directly at him now, eyes clouded, and Waylon hollowed his cheeks and sucked, enjoying the slight flutter of Gluskin’s eyelashes.

“Filthy,” he mumbled. “You’re so filthy, darling. So full of corruption.”

Gluskin’s fingers tasted of warm, clean skin and Waylon moaned as he sucked harder, swirling his tongue around them.

“Look at you,” Gluskin hissed. “ _Slut_.”

Waylon tried to press his body against Gluskin, but Gluskin stopped him with a chuckle. “So eager to sin and corrupt.”

Waylon had wanted this. He had wanted Gluskin to shed his righteousness like a cloak, to tear his sanctimonious sneer right off his face, but standing here, knee-deep in whatever this was, he wasn’t so sure if he knew what he had been asking for.

Because Gluskin towered over him, face twisted with conflicting emotions, sneering and fucking Waylon’s mouth with his fingers, yet still managing to frighten Waylon profusely. And despite that mind-numbing terror he was so hard it was bordering on painful.

“You said not just anyone earlier,” Gluskin breathed. “What does that mean, darling? Whose face are you imagining while you fuck yourself? Surely it isn’t Christ, so who is it?”

He slipped his fingers out, rubbing his spit-slicked fingers on Waylon’s bottom lip while allowing him to answer.

“It’s-” Waylon felt heat on his face, and he shook his head.

“Is it,” Gluskin purred, pressing his body closer, the heat radiating from his body enough to make Waylon dizzy. “One of God’s men? Do you defile them as you indulge in your own self-centered gratification?”

Waylon gave a startled exhale, and Gluskin’s smile widened into something truly unsettling.

“It is, isn’t it?” He breathed, inching one of his legs between Waylon’s thighs. “You fantasize about one of God’s own men.” His voice was triumphant and satisfied.

“I don’t mean to,” Waylon whimpered, knowing it was a lie.

“Lies,” Gluskin tightened his hold on Waylon’s neck. “Why do all you filthy sluts lie to me?”

“I don’t wanna lie.” Waylon whispered, lowering his gaze to their feet.

“Look at me,” Gluskin demanded.

Waylon wanted to. He really did. But some sickly part of him wondered what Gluskin would do if he didn’t obey. So he kept his head lowered, despite Gluskin growling in front of him. Waylon closed his eyes, thinking back to that shuddering growl when Gluskin climaxed the previous night and he couldn’t contain a moan escaping his lips.

“So that it,” Gluskin murmured. “You _like_ this. You like sinning right here in God’s own house.”

Gluskin moved his hand across Waylon’s lips, his fingers pushing on the soft flesh before his fingers ran down Waylon’s neck. Waylon shuddered and jolted under him, panting as Gluskin traced over his chest and down his abdomen.

“You want to condemn me, is that it?” Gluskin’s other hand twisted in Waylon’s hair. “You want to damn my soul?”

“And what of my soul?” Waylon groaned, allowing Gluskin to tilt his head back.

“You’re already damned,” Gluskin spat, his fingers sprawling lightly over Waylon’s cock.

“God!” Waylon gasped, jerking against the feather-light tough, trying to gain friction from fingers that didn’t move.

“Darling, have you forgotten the second commandment? The name of the Lord is holy, and misusing it is a sin,” Gluskin leaned closer, his lips ghosting over Waylon’s skin. “It’s really piling on for you, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Waylon panted, his face red and his lips parted. “Fuck.”

Gluskin laughed then, moving his face down to Waylon’s neck. Waylon found himself craning his neck further, allowing him complete access to his body. “Yes,” he hissed. “Please.”

“Yes,” Gluskin moved both hands down to Waylon’s hips. “Beg my forgiveness.”

“I-” Waylon groaned and squirmed under Gluskin’s firm hold. He tried to pull him closer, but Gluskin didn’t budge.

“Beg,” he hissed.

“Forgive me,” Waylon’s hands were like claws on Gluskin’s arms, but Gluskin didn’t seem to even notice. “Forgive me for wanting-”

“Slut.” Gluskin yanked him closer, encircling him in strong arms.

Waylon felt dizzy with elation, pressing his face against Gluskin’s neck, kissing and licking and biting and pushing himself closer. He felt like he had jumped off a cliff, adrenaline surging through his body, and he just couldn't get enough of him. Gluskin growled, his hands digging into the firm flesh of Waylon’s ass. Waylon could feel Gluskin against him, feel his arousal as surely as he could feel his own, but he still snaked a hand between them so he could feel Gluskin through his tunic.

Oh. _Oh_. Waylon’s mind went blank for a second when he wrapped his hand, or tried to wrap it, around Gluskin rock hard erection, earning himself a groan from Gluskin.

“You’re so big,” Waylon breathed against Gluskin’s neck, pressing himself closer.

Gluskin was about to growl a reply when the doors to the church creaked open, and Waylon stiffened in Gluskin’s arms. Gluskin didn’t seem too concerned, his expression predatory as he pushed Waylon in front of him to the confession box in the corner.

“B-but-” Waylon started, but Gluskin just covered his mouth with his hand and cast a glance behind him.

“You stay quiet,” he snarled. “Don’t let them know.” And with that he pulled the heavy red drape aside and pushed Waylon in while he followed closely after.

It was a tight fit, but Gluskin managed to sit down, Waylon on his knees in front of him, leaving little doubt of what Gluskin wanted.

“Father?” A timid voice came from outside, and Gluskin pushed his fingers against Waylon’s lips, dipping them inside.

“Go right ahead, my child.” His voice was oddly unfazed and he pulled his tunic up enough to unzip his pants.

There was a small grate in eye level, and Waylon thought he could see a flash of wavy strawberry blonde hair and he was reminded of Lisa for a second before Gluskin pulled his cock out and all other thoughts disappeared.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” the woman started, and Gluskin looked down at Waylon with heavy lidded eyes when Waylon timidly wetted his lips.

“How long since your last confession?” Gluskin said, rubbing his cock along the seam of Waylon’s mouth.

“It’s been, uh, I think four weeks since my last confession, Father.”

“And what are your sins?” Gluskin breath hitched just a little when Waylon let him breach his mouth.

Waylon purposefully ignored what the woman was saying, choosing instead to put all his attention on Gluskin’s cock and how to make him feel good. He experimentally licked the shaft, feeling Gluskin’s thighs tense under his hands.

“I feel your regret is sincere,” Gluskin finally said, his thumb trailing Waylon’s jaw and cheek. “But you still need a penance to heal your relationship with God.”

Waylon hummed against his cock, not entirely sure if Gluskin was speaking to the woman or himself. He certainly felt like a sinner, his knees aching and his jaw sore from working Gluskin’s cock. And fuck, was he sorry for doing it here. He could almost feel the crucified Jesus’ eyes on him as he bobbed his head, trying to get as much of Gluskin in him as he could.

“Let us absolve your sins with a prayer,” Gluskin thrusted into Waylon’s mouth, coaxing tears to spill from Waylon’s eyes.

“God, the Father of mercies,” he started, staring darkly down at Waylon’s face as the woman repeated the words.

“Through the death and resurrection of his son.”

Waylon stuck his hand down his own pants, panting around Gluskin’s cock while he desperately tried to free himself. He pulled away for a second after getting his cock out, leaning back on his knees and giving himself a few languid strokes before he leaned down to engulf Gluskin’s cock again.

“Has reconciled the world to himself,” Gluskin continued, the last word came out more like a breathy exhale and the woman paused before repeating them.

 _God, yes_ , Waylon thought as Gluskin threaded his fingers into his hair and pulled him down further.

“And sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of _sins_ ,” Gluskin hissed the words.

Why did that word seem to make everything better? Waylon had to stop jerking himself off for a minute to refrain from coming, and Gluskin gave him a lazy smile like he knew.

“Through the ministry of the church may God grant you pardon and peace,” Gluskin said, keeping his eyes firmly on Waylon’s, hand carefully wrapped around his neck.

Waylon gasped, allowing Gluskin to thrust into him harder, his tongue sore from licking and sucking, his hand back on his own aching erection.

“And I absolve you of your sins,” Gluskin put his hands on the back of Waylon’s head, fucking his mouth. Waylon let his jaw go slack so Gluskin could use him as he pleased, his hand working furiously between his own legs.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” Gluskin growled and Waylon knew they were reaching the conclusion now, Gluskin’s thrusts erratic where they once were forceful and measured.

Waylon kept his eyes on Gluskin, watching how his controlled facade slipped, his inhibition cracking and falling away to reveal someone human after all. Gluskin bit his lower lip, straining to keep his eyes on Waylon like he had before, his hands almost soft.

“Amen,” Gluskin groaned, pressing his hips against Waylon’s mouth as he emptied himself in him. Waylon’s sounds of pleasure were muffled as his own release came in rhythmic spurts on the ancient wood and across Gluskin’s pants.

“Thank you, Father,” the woman said, and Waylon could see movements through the screen as she crossed herself.

Waylon grinned up at Gluskin, mouthing the same words, but Gluskin’s previous look of euphoria was replaced with something akin to revulsion and he tucked himself in quickly. He was like he had been on that first day, unattainable and judgmental, even with the taste of his semen still on Waylon’s lips.

They stayed quiet until they heard the footsteps fade and then the sound of the doors opening and closing before Gluskin pushed Waylon out of the booth and followed after him.

Waylon was still a little high from the raw emotions pulsing through his body, his knees shaking as he straightened them.

“Am _I_ pardoned, Father?” Waylon whispered, and Gluskin adjusted his tunic with a frown.

“Like I told you, I’m a deacon, not a priest. I cannot hear confessions or absolve sins,” he used both hands to smooth back his hair, rubbing them over his eyes in the process. “You really have damned me.”

Waylon tried to put his hands on Gluskin’s face, but he just shrugged out of his hold.

“Do you not know that the wicked will not inherit the kingdom of God?” Gluskin said quietly. “Men committing shameless acts with men. We’re damned.”

“I don’t believe that’s true at all,” Waylon whispered, and this time Gluskin allowed him to run his palms over his arms.

“Even if that were true, darling, my sins run deeper,” he pulled away again with a sigh. “I need to atone for this. Please, just-” he swallowed. “Please, go.”

Waylon didn’t know what to say to that, so he gave a meek little nod before turning to leave. He halfway expected Gluskin to stop him, but when Waylon cast one final glance his way, he found Gluskin still standing quietly by the altar with his head bowed. Waylon ignored the twinge in his stomach and the sudden need to wrap his arms around Gluskin, and upon exiting Waylon let his own head slump a little, though his own shame had little to do with any God.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Years! :) I hope 2017 will bring better memories for all of us.
> 
> I also want to thank everyone for your kind words and comments. I always find it terrifying to post things on the internet, and it makes me really happy that you guys have made me feel so welcome. Thank you <3

* * *

  
Waylon woke up with swollen lips, and he traced them with his fingertips, prodding the tender flesh. Once he had gotten out from the oppressive silence of the church he had realized that they hadn’t even kissed, but pressing his lips just right, he could almost pretend that they had.

He jerked off in the shower, tilting his head up to the spray of water with his mouth open, feeling it pool in his mouth and overflow. He fucked into his own fist, pinching his eyes closed so he could picture Gluskin as he’d been the previous night; The flutter of his eyes, the sneer that had transformed into something soft and inviting. Waylon panted, feeling the warm water dribble down his throat. He wasn’t sure if he imagined it to be holy water or Gluskin’s come, but that’s all it took. He came with a strangled cry.  
  


* * *

 

Waylon stayed in his regular seat near the back, but when people passed him, they turned to him and smiled. They seemed to have already welcomed him into their ranks in the few days he’d been there, and Waylon slumped back a little, considering it. His life in Denver was very different. People could be anonymous in the city, he was nothing but a face in the crowd, and for a long time he had preferred it that way. He had a simple routine, a freelance job that paid more than he needed, and few, but good, friends. Coming here to a small town shouldn’t be able to change all he knew, but he’d caught himself considering how life here would be.

He had spent the few hours he’d had before coming here reading articles about the Catholic faith, and he saw the church in a new light. Things had a name, a place, each ritual immersive and complete. It was almost scary how integrated the religion were in these people’s lives; for each word the priest said, the congregation would answer him without any thoughts or hesitation. How easy a life like that would be, to just obey like Gluskin had commanded.

Except, of course, for the obvious factor of living in sin and Waylon felt a slight shudder down his spine at the thought.

A young boy walked up to the front of the church, said the name of a hymn and started singing in a loud, clear voice. The doors behind Waylon opened, and Father Martin entered with a solemn look, followed by Gluskin.

Gluskin had his head tilted down, his hand clutching the metal chain connected to the censer so hard Waylon could see his knuckles whitening. His dalmatic - what Waylon previously had thought of as a tunic - wasn’t white like the first time Waylon saw him, but a light green embroidered carefully with golden threads. Waylon wondered if Gluskin had made it himself, maybe as a peace offering to God.

He swung the censer slowly back and forth, the pungent smell of incense following in his wake. Everything felt so immediate at that second; the quiet tinks from the metal clanking together, the smoke trailing around them. Everything seemed suspended in the air. It would have been spiritual, had Gluskin not looked so defeated.

Gluskin and Father Martin both kneeled by the altar, the priest kissing the white cloth while Gluskin just stepped aside. He must have been aware that Waylon was there, yet he gave a visible start when their eyes met, his face ashen.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” Father Martin said, and they all crossed themselves, giving an “Amen,” before sitting down.

“Peace be with you,” Father Martin bowed gently.

“And also with you.”

It was mesmerizing, this unquestioned devotion.

Father Martin did a call for prayer, but Waylon kept his focus solely on Gluskin’s face. He was praying fervently by the looks of it, his lips moving quickly like he had a lot to say and not a whole lot of time to say it. His hands extended from the wide sleeves of the dalmatic, clasped together tightly. Maybe he felt Waylon’s eyes on him, or just expected it, because his eyes fluttered before focusing on Waylon.

There were so many emotions on his face, not all of them positive. But that first initial softness, the one carefully concealed with a scowl not a second later, that softness said it all.

He held Waylon’s gaze for a second of two longer before carefully letting it drift to the rest of the congregation. Waylon wasn’t sure what he meant by it, maybe that Waylon was just another member of the congregation in his eyes, another sinner, or maybe a need for the others not to see the looks shared between them.  
  
"-And this is love: that we walk in obedience to his commands." Father Martin spoke reverently, and Waylon felt his heart swell with the words.

No matter what Gluskin's intention with his look was, he pointedly did not look at Waylon again for the duration of the mass, while Waylon couldn’t keep his eyes away.  
  


* * *

  
Waylon hadn’t worn the listening device for any of his conversations with Gluskin, but he knew he had to eventually. It was taped back on his chest again now, and something about it made him feel dirty. Like even more of an impostor than he already was.

The local flea market was held at the local high school right after hours that day, and Waylon found himself walking through the colourful stands of knick-knacks and home-made clothing. It wasn’t like the hipster ones in Waylon’s neighbourhood back home, but friendly and cozy with a nice mix of old and new. The best part was the air though, fragrant with home-made waffles and funnel cakes.

Waylon walked through the stalls, nodding and smiling to people while he munched on a warm pretzel. Gluskin had disappeared right after the service, and Waylon tried not to be too conspicuous as he scanned the crowd for him.

“Mr. Park! Hey!”

Waylon turned and found himself face-to-face with an attractive woman in her late-thirties, a toddler on her hip who smiled just as widely as his mother.

“Hi! Uh, I’m afraid I don’t…?”

“Oh, we haven’t been introduced.” She smiled and gave Waylon a firm handshake. “I’m Caroline Manera, and I live just a few houses down from the church. I’ve seen you there.”

“Waylon Park, but I guess you know that already,” Waylon said lamely.

“How do you like Leadville so far?”

Great, practically an invitation to snoop a little.

“Oh, it’s been great. Real swell.” _Swell_? Waylon mentally scolded himself. “Not at all like what the paper’s been saying.”

Caroline’s smile faltered a little and she held her son tighter, evident by the child’s sudden fidgeting. “It’s horrible, isn’t it? “ She lowered her voice. “You hear about things like this in the big cities, not at all in small places like this.”

“Yeah,” Waylon agreed. “I wanted to leave that behind, all that big city mentality and all that.”

“Exactly!” Caroline lit up. “My husband, Frank, he doesn’t understand why I’m scared, but our little Tommy will be grown up soon and then what?”

“Any ideas on who might be behind it all?”

Caroline glanced quickly around her before leaning in. “People are saying they don’t trust Mr. Walker, says he’s been a little strange ever since he returned from overseas, but me? I don’t believe that. No, this sounds like someone who has some sort of religious background, but who doesn’t practice anymore. It’s like Father Martin called it; A perversion of faith.”

“Perversion of Faith,” Waylon echoed, trying to ignore the tightening in his chest. “Yeah, I can see that, definitely.”

“Oh, listen to me, rambling on,” Caroline laughed and gave Waylon's arm a playful swat. “I do hope you’ll stop by us sometimes, we run the small diner on the corner, you can’t miss it.”

“Thank you, I will,” Waylon smiled and waved before making his way through the stalls.

Walker, eh? He hoped the microphone had caught it all, because he was certain Miles would find this information interesting. Waylon was more concerned about what she had said about the cult being the work of a man of faith. Perversion of faith, those were her words. It basically had Gluskin all over it. He only hoped that this Hope kid had went missing on a day they’d spent together. Either way he knew what Miles would say about it. He could almost see Miles’ big accusing finger pointed directly at Gluskin.

The next half hour was a blur. He didn’t get more than a few words out of Father Martin when he saw him in the crowd, too busy chatting to a large group of people about the possibility of a summer school, and he spent the rest of the time buying small trinkets and way too many waffles for any self-respecting person. He was about to accept that Gluskin simply wasn’t there when he saw him.

He was looking both guarded and extremely bored, a strange combination, sitting by a stand full of beautifully designed evening gowns and elegant suits. A sign next to him said that all proceeds would be given to the church, and judging by the empty spots on the table he had already sold a lot. Around him where at least five young women, giggling and touching the fine fabrics. Gluskin answered their questions kindly enough, but his attention seemed stuck elsewhere.

Then, before Waylon had a chance to think things through, Gluskin glanced his way and stiffened. At a loss for what else to do, Waylon walked up to him regardless of the expression on his face, or the women surrounding him.

“Hey,” he started, and Gluskin shifted.

“Hello,” he said dismissively, and turned his head to look at the stands around them.

“You left before I could talk to you.”

“I don’t have anything to say,” Gluskin gritted out, looking uncomfortable.  
  
The women exchanged looks, but didn't say anything.

“So you’re just gon-”

“Waylon, must you do this here? Now?” His tone might sound pleading, but his eyes flashed as he turned to look at Waylon.

“No, I suppose not,” Waylon stood dazed for a second before turning to leave. This time he even managed not to look behind him as he walked away.  
  


* * *

  
He knocked on Gluskin’s door later that night.

Truth be told, he was nervous. He had the microphone still attached, he had even taken a detour by the motel to make sure it was working. He hoped he wouldn’t end up in a situation where Gluskin might see it. He’d felt like something out of a detective movie the first time Miles had shown him how to work it, but now he felt more like a kid playing dress up. He had no clue what he was doing.

Gluskin must have been sleeping, because when he finally came down his hair was spiked up in awkward angles and he was wearing a very casual outfit that was very far removed from what he usually wore. It was almost endearing. His face hardened when he saw who it was, though, and he seemed to hesitate by the door before finally unlocking it.

“We need to talk,” Waylon said before Gluskin had the chance to say anything. “And not about what you think.”

Gluskin considered this for a moment before finally taking a step to the side so he could let Waylon in. He didn’t say a word, just went straight for the staircase and disappeared upstairs.

Waylon shrugged and closed the door behind him, following after him up the stairs.

Once he entered the living room Gluskin was already seated, and Waylon sat down opposite of him.

“What is it?” Gluskin said after a moment’s silence, his voice raspy with sleep.

“Another kid went missing.”

It must have been the last thing Gluskin expected coming out of his mouth, because his eyes snapped to Waylon’s.

“When?” He asked sharply, all previous signs of lethargy gone in an instant.

Waylon considered himself a pretty good judge of character, and there was nothing on Gluskin’s face suggesting that he knew a thing about it.

“I’m not entire sure,” Waylon admitted. “They talked about it in the flea market.”

A bad lie, perhaps, but one that would be hard to catch.

“My God,” Gluskin sighed, bringing a hand to his eyes. “You think you’ll get used to it, but you never do.”

“How could you get used to something like this?”

“I’ve lived here my entire life. Trust me when I say this isn’t the first time bad things happen here.” Something on his face told Waylon not to make too many questions about that statement. “Yet I keep forgetting how filthy humanity can be.”

“Who do you think is behind it?”

Gluskin laughed. “You come here at night to ask me about crazy cultists?” He shook his head, getting on his feet. “I’m gonna make some tea, you want any?”

“Sure,” Waylon answered, regarding Gluskin’s face carefully. “So who then?”

“If I knew that, Waylon, I’d go to the police," he said in an exasperated sigh. Waylon almost felt like a child being chided.

“Right,” Waylon mumbled, watching Gluskin disappear into the kitchen.

It was almost comforting, sitting here in the plush armchair, listening to the sound of running water and the gentle sounds of china being handled. Gluskin came out a few minutes later, with two steaming cups, sugar and a platter with small cookies. He placed it on the table, but made to moves towards them himself.

“A woman mentioned a Mr. Walker?”

“Chris?” Gluskin chuckled humorlessly. “Yeah, he seems the type, doesn’t he? Ex-military, keeps to himself, all that standard stuff.” Gluskin waved his hand dismissively.

“But you don’t think he is?”

Gluskin shook his head. “No, I don’t. Chris is a good man. A little unstable after serving abroad, and a little too caught up in military protocols, but kidnapping kids and brainwashing them? Never.”

“You know where I could find him?”

“Oh, you can’t miss him. Tall, muscular, buzz cut. He keeps mostly to himself, but he usually jogs in the park every morning.” Gluskin pulled his fingers through his hair, and Waylon noticed a slight tremor in them.

“I guess it just makes me wonder, y’know? How closely related religion and fanaticism really is,” Waylon said and Gluskin looked at him coolly.

“Sometimes one and the same,” he agreed darkly.

“You’re a deacon, should you really be saying that?” Waylon had a sip of tea. “I thought you’d be a bit more…” He let his voice trail off.

“A little more what? You think since I’m a deacon that makes me less of a human being? Less of a man?”

No, Waylon definitely knew it didn’t make him any less of a man, but he wasn’t sure if it would be a good idea to comment on it. In front of him Gluskin regarded him coldly, a clear challenge in his eyes.

“No, but definitely more… Oppressed, I guess,” he settled for that in the end and while Gluskin didn’t blow up like he thought, he still had a strange look on his face.

They sat in silence for a second, and Waylon helped himself to one of the cookies Gluskin had put on the table. It had the same type of warm, spiced aroma as the tea and, indeed, Gluskin himself. Waylon could still remember the clean masculine scent of his body, and he shifted uncomfortably.

“When did you join the church?” He asked instead, hoping it could deflect the sudden heat pooling in his belly.

“At birth,” Gluskin reached for his cup, but seemed to change his mind, putting his hands back in his lap instead. “My mother was a very devout Catholic, and I wouldn’t-” he paused. “I _couldn’t_ break her heart by leaving.”

“And your father?”

Gluskin’s face hardened, and Waylon could hear fabric creaking as he wrought his hands around his shirt.

“I have no father,” he gritted out, finally, something truly unsettling about the look on his face. “Not that I have a mother either anymore.” The previous look of anger melted away to one of utter anguish.

“I’m sorry,” Waylon stammered. “I shouldn’t have-”

“You know how it is to lose someone you love. It never truly heals, does it?”

Waylon thought with a sickening pang back at his son’s faces. Of Lisa’s strawberry curls and gentle smile. He wondered if he’d find himself attracted to someone like Gluskin if Lisa hadn’t died. Gluskin was very far removed from the happy-go-lucky personality he usually found himself gravitating towards. Gluskin was neither happy nor, by the looks of things, very lucky. He observed Gluskin’s face, the severity of his gaze, the hard planes of his face. All of him seemingly hard and unapproachable.

Waylon realized Gluskin was waiting for a reply.

“It doesn’t go away completely,“ Waylon started while putting his cup down. “But I like to think grief changes at some point.”

Gluskin nodded and seemed lost in thoughts for a moment before speaking again.

“How old were your children?”

Waylon gave a rueful smile at the thought of his sons.

“Michael was four and Alfie was two.” Waylon paused and pressed the heel of his hand against his right eye, trying to keep his voice from wavering. He missed them so much. Missed Alfie’s shy little smile that would widen with laughter the way only a two year old's could. Michael who was always serious like his mother, at least until you knew them and you caught glances of their dryly humorous nature. He had meant what he’d told Gluskin though. At first, right after the accident, the pain had been so severe that he wasn’t sure how he’d survive. If he even _wanted_ to survive. Truthfully, without Miles, he wasn’t so sure he would’ve. But now, four years later, he could almost, _almost_ , think of them without pain.

“I’ve always wanted a family,” Gluskin said, creasing his forehead as if the thought was unpleasant. “I always wanted children.”

There was nothing to be said to that and they sat in silence, Waylon occasionally drinking tea, while Gluskin didn’t touch his.  
  


* * *

  
It was long past midnight when Waylon finally arrived back at his motel, pale artificial lights from the lobby illuminating the dank parking lot.

Gluskin had been so unattainable again, like he was in another world altogether, and Waylon almost had the feeling nothing of importance had ever happened between them.

He crossed the parking lot and walked towards his door when he realized with a start that the light he had assumed was from the administration was in fact the door to his motel room. It was suddenly ajar, and he froze like a deer in headlights and just stared stiffly at the crack in the door. He’d heard about things like this, who hadn’t? A journalist that came a little too close to the truth to be left alive anymore.

Waylon swallowed thickly and decided to take a few steps closer before alerting the motel manager. Unless, of course, she was in on it as well. God, his heart was hammering at this point, his blood thrumming in his ears. He didn't know anyone in this town, didn't know who he could trust at all. Maybe the sane thing would be to get in his car and drive far, far away from this place, to his safe and comfortable, if not completely mind-numbing, life.

He was just about to when he heard cursing from his room and Waylon threw his hands in the air with relieved exasperation. “Miles!? Is that you?” Waylon nudged the door open with his shoulder and stared in.

“Oh, hey, Park,” Miles said absently as he tried to connect his laptop to the motel wi-fi. “Where you been, man?”

“How the hell did you get in here?”

“Reservation might be in your name, Way, but my name was on the billing.” He tapped his temple. “Pretty smart, right?”

Waylon scoffed. “Yeah, brilliant. So what, you’re not getting your own room?”

“See any luggage? Nah, I got my own room. Thought you’d be happy to see me though, catch up and shit.”

“You nearly gave me a freaking heart attack,” Waylon mumbled and closed the door behind him. With a sigh he ran his hand through his hair. “Got any leads?”

“A shit-ton. Dunno if anything’s useful though…” He trailed off when he finally got a connection. “You’ve given me great ones though, I knew you had it in you,” he added over his shoulder.

Waylon dumped down on the bed, suddenly feeling nervous again. “Oh, yeah? On who?” Waylon hoped it wouldn’t be Gluskin.

“That guy you mentioned? Jeremy Blaire? He’s the director of a huge pharmaceutical company.”

“And? So?”

“You don’t think that’s strange? Big science guy, honor student, the shits, who just happens to be involved in both pharmaceuticals and the friendly local church-slash-cult?”

Waylon rolled his eyes. “Loads of ‘science dudes’ are religious, that doesn’t prove a thing. And I’ve found nothing to suggest it’s a cult unless you find bake sales suspicious.”

“I do when they hire a former mental patient as deacons, yeah,” Miles had gotten a slightly wounded tone, like he always seemed to get when Waylon didn’t take his ideas seriously.

“Gluskin?”

“Yeah, spent years at the local loony bin. Dunno why though, not yet anyway,” Miles shrugged.

“Isn’t that just-” Waylon fidgeted. He found the idea of Gluskin at a mental institution hard to swallow. “Y’know, what they want? Re-entry into society and all that?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, but around impressionable kids? I dunno, man.”

Waylon stared blindly into the room, processing the information. Then he remembered the wire he was wearing and he shrugged out of his jacket.

“On that note I went to a flea market today, talked to some people.” He pulled on his shirt enough to pull the tape and microphone off.

“Great! I’ll listen to it tonight, start fresh in the morning, yeah?” Miles closed his laptop with a satisfied half-smile and put it under his arm.

“Yeah, sure,” Waylon chucked the wire across the room and into Miles’ fist. “Just don’t come into my room in the middle of the night.”

“Whatever you say, Way.” Miles did a exaggerated bow before backing out of the door and closing it behind him.

“Idiot,” Waylon mumbled with a fond smile and shut his eyes.

It had been a long day.


	8. Chapter 8

They walked together to Frank’s diner the next morning for breakfast. Truth be told, Waylon had been a little excited to show Miles around Leadville, but so far he didn't seem all that impressed. Miles looked rough, like he hadn’t slept at all, and he had barely said a word. At least Frank's diner was easy enough to spot, just like Caroline had said. Over the fairy nondescript facade was a big flashing sign that advertised for 'the best meat in town'. Miles sent Waylon a disbelieving look before they entered and found a booth near the back. When the waitress brought over two cups and a steaming pot of coffee Miles gripped the cup like a lifeline and downed the scalding liquid without as much as a flinch. Then he asked the waitress to refill his cup and leave the pot.

Waylon waited patiently, taking in the place. It was one of those old-fashioned diners he remembered from when he was a kid; Red vinyl booths, checkered floors, and 50's music drifting out of the red speakers along the ceiling that matched the booths perfectly. If one of the waiters came over on roller-skates and daisy dukes, then Waylon wouldn't really be surprised.

The same waitress that brought over the coffee came back -unfortunately without the roller-skates- with a notebook and a friendly smile, and Waylon and Miles ordered breakfast. Despite the setting it felt like any other weekend in Denver.

“Listened to the tape,” Miles rasped as soon as the waitress had left them. “You’re giving this Gluskin guy way too much ammo. For fuck sakes Waylon, telling him about Lisa and the kids?” He shook his head.

“I gotta make him trust me.”

“Then make shit up! You don’t want the wrong people knowing the wrong thing about you.”

“Well, you know I’m a terrible liar, so what did you expect?” Waylon sniffed, feeling more than a little indignant about the whole thing. It hadn't been his choice to come here.

“Yeah, well, not that,” Miles trailed off, focusing on his second cup of coffee.

“Did you get anything though?”

“Other than the distinct feeling there’s something odd going on with you and the deacon?” He shot Waylon a pointed glare and Waylon couldn’t stop the slow blush from creeping up his neck. “Yeah, I’ve started looking into this Chris Walker. Let’s see what we get.”

The waitress returned with two heaping plates of food, which Miles immediately started shoveling into his mouth. The food, not the plates, though Waylon almost worried Miles would start on the plates once he was done with the food. He even had the nerve to steal a couple of fries from Waylon's plate.

“What’s the plan now with you here?” Waylon asked, and batted Miles' hands away when he tried for a piece of bacon as well.

“Probably shouldn’t be seen together,” he laughed at the expression on Waylon’s face. “I told you I’m pretty much infamous.”

“Then why the hell are we eating together now?”

“I’m hungry,” Miles snickered. “No, but don’t worry. We work independently and catch up at night.”

“Anything I should focus on?” Waylon poked at his scrambled eggs with the tips of his fork. He’d suddenly lost his appetite.

“Just,” Miles wiped his face with a napkin. “Y’know, just be your usual choir boy self, although-” He stabbed a roll on his knife and pointed it at Waylon. “I don’t want you hanging around that Gluskin guy alone.”

“Yes, mom,” Waylon muttered, rolling his eyes.

“I mean it. He’s weird. Who know what he’s capable of. I don’t want your blood on my hands.”

"Then what am I supposed to do?" Waylon finally pushed his plate away, his appetite completely gone.

"Who else is at that church?" Miles asked, immediately going for the bacon Waylon had chased him away from earlier.

"Well, you got Gluskin, Father Martin, and the only two other people I've seen there are a pair of twins. Couldn't tell you their names or what they do exactly, but I've seen them at every mass so far."

"Twins, huh?" Miles looked thoughtfully at his eggs with a crease between his eyebrows. "I wonder if there's a strong prevalence of twins here..." His voice trailed off and he pulled up a tattered old notebook and scribbled something there.

Waylon rolled his eyes. Sometimes Miles would get caught up with mindless details that no one else would ever think to dwell on, and there was little use in discouraging him. Waylon smiled at the image of Miles looking up the average prevalence of twin births within a population, match it to Leadville and then go on to checking the fluoride contents in the water here, and what pesticides the local farmers used. Dull was one thing you couldn't call him.

"I'll look shit up, you keep your eyes peeled in the meantime. We'll catch this cult, mark my words." Miles finally said, underlining something in his notebook for emphasis.

Waylon didn’t respond, just stared out at the sleepy streets of Leadville, still finding it unbelievable that a place like this could host such cruelty.  
  


* * *

  
When he entered the church twenty odd minutes later he could tell something was wrong.

A young couple were seated up front, holding each other and crying, and Father Martin was knelt in front of them with his hands covering both of theirs. Father Martin always looked serious, like a proper priest should, Waylon supposed, but now his expression was a mask of grief more than anything else. Gluskin stood a ways back looking uncomfortable, and when he noticed Waylon he did an almost invisible mirthless smile that was gone as soon as it had appeared.

Waylon slid into his usual spot near the entrance, trying to make out what was being said up front. He fished out his phone and sent a quick text to Miles about the couple, before re-focusing on Father Martin.

He couldn’t hear much, but he definitely heard the word ‘fanatics’ in there, and he wondered if this meant there had been another disappearance, or worse yet, another death.

Gluskin pulled away from his spot near the altar, and walked past Father Martin and down the nave of the church. He paused once he was next to the pew Waylon was sitting on, before sliding in next to him.

“Their missing child was found dead last night,” Gluskin murmured under his breath, his brows furrowed. “Burned to death, like the rest.”

“My God,” Waylon breathed, and for once Gluskin didn’t correct his use of the word.

“I guess I should be up there talking about _God’s plan_ or that their child is better off where he is now, but-” Gluskin sighed. “All I can think of is how anyone can let this happen.”

Waylon’s eyes widened and he turned his head slowly to look at him. Gluskin's jaw was tense to the point where it looked painful, the stony expression back on his face.

“What do you…?” Waylon shook his head. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I don’t understand how God can allow this to happen.”

“God works in mysterious ways?” Waylon offered, seeing how Gluskin’s lips relaxed a fraction.

“Mysterious indeed,” he gritted, but didn’t elaborate.

Waylon studied Gluskin’s face. True, he had wanted Gluskin to falter in his convictions, but to see him void of them completely? It was heartbreaking.

“What will you do?”

“Regret, penance, submission, punishment,” Gluskin mumbled. “Terrible words for the love of God, isn’t it? ‘Do as I say, or burn for all eternity’?” He ran a hand over his face with a sigh before continuing. “Just ignore me. I’ll be alright soon.”

"Punishment?"

Gluskin's eyes trailed to his, and there was something strange there, like he just now realized who he was talking to.

"I should get back up there, service is about to begin," he said instead of answering Waylon's question. "I'm sorry for-" He grimaced and made a vague gesture with his hand.

“I’m here if you want to talk,” Waylon said softly, catching the slight flutter of Gluskin's eyes. 

Gluskin didn’t say anything to that, but he placed his warm hand over Waylon’s for a moment before getting back up. Waylon closed his eyes, longing for that touch to linger, before opening them back up and watching Gluskin leave. He didn't look at Waylon, just walked back up to the altar without a backwards glance, pressing his lips to the cloth as the congregation arrived in time for the service.  
  


* * *

 

“So what do we know so far?” Miles asked, staring up at the large sheet of paper he had stapled to the motel wall.

“That you will have to pay extra for that?” Waylon said, pointing to the holes on the wall.

“We know a cult popped up a few months ago,” he continued on as if Waylon hadn’t said a word. “We know they either brainwash kids into setting themselves on fire to ‘cleanse themselves’, or that it's just a ruse to hide that it's coldblooded murder.” Miles paused for a moment, before adding under his breath. "I mean, it's fucking murder either way, but you know."

“We know it’s based in Leadville,” Waylon helpfully supplemented.

“We _assume_ it is, Way, don’t jump to conclusions.”

“Fine.” Waylon rolled his eyes. “We _assume_ it’s based in Leadville.”

“Good, good!” Miles tapped his temple, before writing something on the paper with his usual indecipherable scribble. “Now, see, that’s the difference between a lawsuit and a smack on the wrist, you’re learning.”

“Yeah, great.” Waylon rubbed the back of his neck, but Miles just scoffed and kept scribbling.

“We know this Edward Gluskin was released from a mental institution and heavily medicated,” Miles didn’t notice Waylon tensing up, but kept on talking. “Still waiting on information on why he was committed.”

“Is that even legal?” Waylon croaked.

“Legal, smegal. As long as I get results, then nobody ask questions.” He furrowed his brow as he made a small doodle of the church, exaggerating the roof until it resembled a flag pole more than a spire. “Now, we know the church is involved, somehow.”

“Don’t you mean you 'assume’ and all that?”

“No, I think it’s beyond any doubt that there’s a connection.” Miles fumbled for his back pocket and pulled out his notebook which he flipped open with practiced ease. “All the kids missing have some sort of connection to the church. Some have parents in the parish, others were just baptized there. Hell, the kid found dead last night is the son of the previous secretary. If this is just a coincidence, then it’s…” He trailed off, staring at the list of names.

“Then it’s what?”

“William Hope,” Miles whispered.

“The kid reported missing the other day?”

“Hold on,” Miles mumbled before going over to his canvas bag and pulled out a thick folder of papers which he flicked through. He pulled out one sheet of paper before reading it seemingly over and over again, pacing on the floor.

“Miles, wha-”

“Shh!” Miles interrupted him without even a glance, his eyes focused firmly on the paper.

“William Hope wasn’t the last one, Waylon,” Miles’ eyes were intense when he finally turned to Waylon a few minutes later. “He was the first.”

“But you said-”

“I said his father reported him missing the other day, yeah, but says here he hasn’t been seen since last year.” Miles shoved the paper in Waylon’s face, who pulled the paper out of his hands so he could read it over.

“Okay, so Hope was committed to a mental institution as well,” Waylon said weakly, re-reading the name of the institution, hoping that he was just remembering wrong.

“Yes, the very same one as Edward Gluskin.”

“Due to family conflicts and his age, his family wasn’t aware that he had gone missing up until now.” Waylon mumbled, staring at it. So he was remembering the name right. 

“That’s not all, Waylon, look here,” Miles shoved his notebook into Waylon’s hands, tapping his finger furiously on the page.

“I don’t even know what I’m looking at,” Waylon whispered, and Miles gave an annoyed huff.

“No connection to the church. None whatsoever. Not to Father Martin. Not to Chris Walker.” Miles drew in breath sharply for dramatic effect before continuing. “The only connection is Edward Gluskin.”


	9. Chapter 9

They stayed up for most of the night, scribbling notes on the large sheet of paper until warm morning light filtered through the cheap drapes in the motel.

Well, honestly, Miles did most of the scribbling, but they had shot ideas back and forth until Waylon’s head was spinning. He suddenly understood why Miles was such an odd duck; No one could hold that many conspiracy theories in their heads without a fuse blowing.

After hours of Miles’ endless discussions on the subject Waylon had to reluctantly admit that it did seem unlikely that Gluskin wasn’t involved in one way or another, but he refused to believe that he was directly involved in the killings themselves. And while Miles didn't agree with that sentiment, he did agree to keep an open mind.

Now Miles was fast asleep on the bed, his mouth hanging open as he snored gently, and Waylon stepped back over to the paper on the wall for a closer look.

‘William Hope’, was both underlined and circled, with a thick line spreading out to Gluskin’s name, which in turn had lines spreading into other names and locations. Waylon glanced back over at Miles before turning back and stroking his fingers over Gluskin’s name.

He was being irrational, he knew this. He didn’t know Gluskin at all. Well, besides the very intimate knowledge of the scent of his skin and the taste of his- Waylon cut the thought process there, heat rising in his cheeks. He shouldn’t care about a middle-aged deacon in a small town in the mountains, especially not if said deacon was involved in a case like this, but something about him still refused to let go.

Waylon supposed what got him was that strange duality, the confusing mixture of devotion and perversion, anger and, lately, a strange new softness in the way Gluskin regarded him. It was this unpredictable change between the stable and unstable that both terrified and excited him, though he knew very well that it shouldn’t. He almost thought he could hear Lisa click her tongue and scold him for acting this way. He smiled gently at the memory of her playful bickering when she thought he was being irrational.

At least now they had a plan forming for the following days; Miles was set to follow up on some leads regarding Father Martin and Chris Walker, while Waylon had convinced him it would be better to keep his regular meetings with Gluskin. To avoid suspicion if nothing else.

Waylon yawned and rubbed his hands over his face, wondering for a second if he should just curl up next to Miles like they used to growing up, but he decided against it. Miles' nightly flailings had been oddly endearing when he was a child, but Waylon had gotten his share of bruises to last a lifetime after Miles bulked up. He wrote a note for Miles instead, before sneaking out the door.

It was one of those beautiful early summer mornings, the sun warming his face as he tilted his head up and closed his eyes. Normally, back in Denver, he would have used this time at his favourite coffee shop, getting himself a tall glass of latte while working on his code and tuning out the world around him.

He sighed and unlocked the door to his own motel room, before crashing into bed and into a dreamless sleep.  
  


* * *

  
Waylon was asleep just a few hours until a harsh knock on the door woke him. He sat up with a start, disoriented with his limbs tangled in scratchy sheets, before realizing where he was. The heavy drapes were thick enough to block out most of the light to the point where he couldn’t tell if it was morning or night. The silence in the room was deafening, and for a few moments he was almost certain that the knocking had been a figment of his imagination until there came another knock.

“One second,” he called out, his voice raspy with sleep, and he rubbed his eyes as he got up. How long had he been asleep? It was supposed to be a short nap before going back to the church, see if he could dig anything up on Jeremy Blaire. Waylon cursed under his breath and unlocked the door.

Gluskin was standing outside, his posture stiff and his eyes flickering slightly when Waylon opened the door.

“H-Hi,” Waylon whispered, uncertain what protocol dictated him doing. Would it be improper to invite him in? Probably, though what they had done the other night knocked any consideration out of the water.

“Are you ill?” Gluskin’s pale eyes roamed Waylon’s face, expression not betraying a single emotion of what he found there.

“No, I just-” Waylon paused, scratching his cheek. What could he say? He wasn’t so sure Gluskin would approve of him spending the night with Miles, no matter how he spun it. “I couldn’t sleep until I could,” he finished lamely, and in front of him Gluskin seemed to relax.

“I see,” he said simply, before continuing. “I was worried you had decided to leave us.”

He was proper again now, in a crisp suit and his hair slicked back. Even his wording. Waylon knew he wouldn’t get through to him no matter what he did, so he chose to slump against the door frame with a sigh.

“You really think I’m that fickle?”

Gluskin shifted. “Not at all, but you did choose to come here during one of the hardest times of our parish. I’d find it surprising if you did not consider a simpler place.”

“Maybe God is testing me,” Waylon challenged, and in front of him Gluskin gave a small smile.

“Perhaps,” he agreed.

He was about to say something else when Miles emerged from the darkness of his own motel room, blinking at the sun like a mole. He gave a visible start when he noticed Gluskin and Waylon, but quickly regained his composure and gave a nod to them both as he walked past. Waylon gave a weak smile, and cursed the heat he felt rising in his cheeks. Gluskin, on the other hand, followed Miles coldly without a smile, staring at him until he turned the corner.

When he turned back to Waylon the redness hadn’t quite gone away, and his eyes narrowed as he studied Waylon’s face. Okay, it had definitely been a good idea to omit Miles altogether, because the glare he gave Waylon was venomous.

“So,” Waylon started, mostly just to distract Gluskin. “How’d you know where I was?”

“Small town, Waylon, remember?” There was definite cracks in his proper facade now.

“Is there anything going on at the church today?”

“Well,” Gluskin said with a frown. “You missed today’s mass, so no.”

“So what made you come here to my motel room?” Waylon was almost shocked by the words slipping out of his mouth. Usually he was too nervous to make the first move, especially faced with an impossibly tall and moody deacon who may or may not be involved in pretty serious criminal activity.

He couldn’t quite tell if Gluskin was surprised by his forwardness or not. He did shift slightly, but his eyes were firmly glued to Waylon’s face.

“Actually, I was hoping you would join me.” He didn’t specify what to, but Waylon still found himself nodding helplessly.

“Just, uh, give me a minute, okay?”

Gluskin gave a small nod, and Waylon hurried back into the motel room, brushing his teeth and pulling his fingers through the tangled mess that was his hair. He almost considered taking a shower, just to tame it.

When he opened the bathroom door again he gave a little yelp of surprise when he found Gluskin standing inside his motel room.

He somehow seemed much larger standing in the room. At the moment he was standing by the window, trailing his fingers along Waylon’s laptop. Waylon licked his lips, nervously anticipating Gluskin opening the lid and seeing the pictures Waylon had taken inside his apartment.

But he didn’t, just walked slowly over to the bed and stared at it.

“So this is it?” Gluskin said slowly, a new kind of strangeness entering his voice.

Waylon blinked a few times, alternating between looking at Gluskin and looking at his unmade bed. At least the room was tidy enough, though he was unsure if Gluskin would actually care if it wasn’t.

“That’s where I've been sleeping, yeah,” he finally said, not really sure what the question was.

Gluskin trailed his hand along the edge of the bed, feeling the sheets between his fingers.

“Have you sinned here?”

Waylon swallowed, feeling his heart speed up in his chest at the sudden change in Gluskin’s voice.

“Yes,” he whispered, lowering his head.

“Have you touched yourself while fantasizing about God’s men again?”

“Yes.” He didn’t even hesitate that time, and he saw Gluskin’s lips tug up in a faint smile when he glanced up at his face.

“Take off your clothes,” Gluskin murmured as his smile died, and he took a step closer.

“What?” Waylon cursed the blush on his cheeks, and hoped Gluskin couldn’t tell in the half-darkness of the room.

“You heard me. Take off your clothes.”

“W-Why?”

“Because I'm _telling_ you to.” Gluskin’s voice had reached a whole new level of gravelly heat, and Waylon felt himself obeying, all previous conscious thoughts gone in an instant.

His shirt was on the floor before he had time to regret it, and Gluskin’s eyes roamed over his chest and shoulders. Waylon almost felt the path Gluskin’s gaze took, feel his skin burn under Gluskin’s intense scrutiny.

“Go on,” he commanded. He was close enough that he could probably touch Waylon if he wanted to, but still too far away for Waylon to do the same. It seemed like the perfect metaphor for their entire relationship.

Waylon started opening his belt, the metal clanking in the silence of the room, and he pulled it through his belt hoops before dropping it by his feet. He paused then, fingers trembling over the button in his jeans.

It was surreal, being here. He was half-naked, taking his clothes off for a proper looking deacon in a suit, whose eyes were burning and hands balled into fists by his sides.

The button gave with a pop, before he unzipped and let his pants drop and pool by his feet. He stepped out of them before Gluskin could command him further, pulling his socks off in the process.

He wasn’t muscular like Gluskin, possessing a more lean strength, but he still raised his chin defiantly at Gluskin who studied him intently.

“All of it,” Gluskin demanded, and again Waylon’s body did exactly what Gluskin said.

When his underwear went the same way as his pants and socks he almost thought he could hear Gluskin's breath hitch, but his face remained stony and expressionless. Waylon was so hard his cock ached, but he was too frightened to cover himself, waiting instead for Gluskin’s instructions.

Gluskin didn’t speak, just stood there silently with his knuckles white from the hard fists he was making, watching Waylon closely.

“Turn around.”

Waylon stared at him for a second before turning around. It felt different without sight, almost terrifying, and his heart was beating so fast he almost felt the need to support himself against the wall. Everything was silent and empty for a few seconds before he felt a strong hand on his waist. He hadn’t heard Gluskin move, and he had to contain a sound of surprise when he did.

“Such beautiful skin,” Gluskin whispered, and Waylon felt his hot breath fanning over the back of his neck, Gluskin’s mouth feeling like it was just a mere inch away.

Gluskin smelled like spiced tea and church incense, and he pressed himself against Waylon’s body, allowing Waylon to feel the long, hard curve of his erection. Waylon had to finally support himself on the wall, from the sheer force of his embrace.

“Sins are acts involving the intellect and the will.” Gluskin’s hands dug painfully into Waylon’s skin, making Waylon shudder and squirm against his hold. “I know it’s a sin, darling, but all I want is to ravage you.” At that his trailed one hand up to Waylon’s chest, big fingers splaying across his sternum.

Waylon made a sound in his throat that surprised him, for it sounded more like a desperate animal than a thinking human being.

“I want to claim you, mark you, tear you apart,” Gluskin murmured, his other hand sliding down to his hip bone. “I want to carry out all the filthy desires of my sinful little heart.”

Waylon made another strangled sound, turning his head to look at Gluskin. As soon as he did, Gluskin grabbed a hold of his head, slamming it back against the wall.

“Seductive, isn’t it? I could fuck you right here, darling, do things you couldn’t even imagine, and be forgiven for it.”

"I thought you said you had to me-"

That's how far he got before Gluskin trailed his hand lower, lower, until he finally moved his hand down to Waylon's cock, encircling it firmly. Waylon gasped and thrust against his fist, saying things that made no sense and jolted against Gluskin’s fingers.

“I’m born sick, darling, I can’t help it.”

Waylon tried to nod in agreement, but Gluskin’s hand was so firmly tangled in his hair that he only managed a weak jerk of his head.

“Are you this desperate for eternal damnation?”

Waylon didn’t answer, just groaned and muffled himself in the crook of his arm as Gluskin increased the speed.

“Answer me,” Gluskin demanded, but Waylon had no words anymore. All there was was his cock sliding in and out of Gluskin’s fist, Gluskin’s fingers in his hair and his hot breath against Waylon’s skin.

Angered by his lack of cooperation, Gluskin pressed him firmer against the wall, his fist tightening around Waylon’s cock. Waylon opened his mouth to answer him, but nothing but a drawn out moan escaped him. He thought he imagined the ringing in his ears, until Gluskin went very still against him, and Waylon realized his phone was actually ringing.

“You gonna get that?” Gluskin asked darkly, his voice husky and dangerous.

“N-no?” Waylon stammered, gasping against the wall, hoping more than anything that Gluskin would resume the movements of his hands. “Should I?”

“Yes,” Gluskin murmured against his shoulder, his breath tickling Waylon’s sensitive skin.

Waylon pinched his eyes shut as Gluskin moved his hand away for a moment, a slight rustle of cloth and then Gluskin thrust the cool plastic of his phone into his hand.

“Answer it.”

Waylon flicked the lid up and saw Miles’ name flash across the screen. Shit. He cast a quick look behind him, and by the look on Gluskin’s face, he’d seen it too.

“H-hello?” Waylon tried to conceal the tension in his voice with a cough, and Gluskin drew closer again, his hands resting on Waylon’s chest, lazily trailing down towards his abdomen. “Something, uhn, s-something wrong?”

“I got ‘em! I fucking got ‘em, Way!” Miles did some obscene whooping noises on the other end of the line.

“Where are-” Waylon squeaked as Gluskin encircled his cock again with his fist. “You?” His voice sounded breathless and strange, but Miles didn’t seem to think anything of it.

“I’m fucking hiding in the suburbs, man, and this time I-” He paused. “Fuck.”

“What? What’s wrong?” Waylon tried to push himself away from the wall, but Gluskin was right there to push him back. “What’s going on?”

“Hey, sorry, false alarm,” Miles sounded breathless as well now, like he was running. “Was a T and not an I,” he laughed, like the words should mean something to Waylon. “I’ll call you later!” And with that he ended the call.

“Who was that, darling?” Gluskin breathed, and the tone in his voice had the phone slip out of Waylon’s hands.

“Just,” Waylon groaned against the fierce rolling motion of Gluskin’s hand. “A friend.”

Gluskin pulled him away from the wall and Waylon realized for the first time how strong he was. If Gluskin wanted to, he’d probably be able to snap his neck with little effort, and for some reason that thought just spurred Waylon on as he allowed himself to be pulled along to the bed where Gluskin forced him down.

Waylon squirmed and turned around so he could see Gluskin, and this time Gluskin didn’t stop him.

“Spread your legs,” he said instead, watching intently as Waylon obeyed.

Waylon pushed his head back into the pillow, shutting his eyes tightly as Gluskin’s weight made the bed dip a little.

It was different than his previous sexual experiences, suddenly more prey than hunter, and he shivered when Gluskin put his hands on his ankles and let them slide up his calves, over his knees and then up his thighs.

He lifted his head up and saw Gluskin move closer, feral and dangerous in the dim lighting. He was smirking now, big and looming and terrifying, his hands like fire and his eyes like ice.

“Please,” Waylon started, though he wasn’t entirely sure what he was pleading for. Perhaps it was some futile last hope that Gluskin could walk out that door and end whatever this was, or perhaps it was a plea for Gluskin to claim him like he said he wanted, finally make Waylon feel something again.

“Please what? You want my head bowed in worship?” Gluskin’s hands turned cruel as he pushed Waylon’s leg further apart. “You want me on my knees?”

Waylon’s cock pulsed when he felt Gluskin’s hands move further up, and he gave a strangled cry when Gluskin bent down to envelop Waylon’s cock in the wet heat of his mouth.

Waylon tried to sit up, but collapsed back down when Gluskin pushed him back. Waylon was neither thin nor short, but he was dwarfed entirely by Gluskin, whose form was leaned over his lower half, his expression almost furious as he sucked Waylon’s cock.

“Oh my G-” Waylon started, and Gluskin quickly dug his blunt nails into Waylon’s thighs as a warning. “Fuck!”

Gluskin sat up, hoisting Waylon’s knees over his own shoulders. He lifted Waylon almost clear off the bed, leaving him to rest on his shoulders. In that position Gluskin’s hands were free to roam, and he kneaded Waylon’s ass while continuing the absolutely mind-numbing exploration of Waylon’s cock.

Gluskin’s suit was smooth and fine against Waylon’s skin, and the raw display of power, both physically and mentally, would have brought Waylon to his knees, had he not been completely brought down already. Gluskin had asked him if he wanted Gluskin on his knees, but Waylon already knew he was the one completely submerged in filth.

He had this sudden mental image of a wolf and a lamb fighting in mud, the wolf with his large maw around the lamb’s neck, strangling and letting it drown in his own blood. Because, at the moment, his blood was rushing almost painfully in his ears, thrumming wildly in his veins, his heart pumping so hard and fast he felt like passing out; He felt like that lamb, and Gluskin felt like that wolf.

Gluskin slipped his thumb in between Waylon’s cheeks so he could rub it across Waylon’s entrance, and Waylon’s body went rigid with the powerful and almost painful surge of arousal.

Gluskin moved his head back, allowed Waylon’s erection to pop out of his mouth, and he gave it a few licks before staring down at Waylon.

“I knew it as soon as I saw you, darling, there’s something special about you.”

God, why was he here? He was supposed to help Miles, help all the kids burned to ashes in the name of some god. Not planted on his shoulders in a dingy hotel bed with his cock buried deep in some stranger’s mouth. Maybe Gluskin was right and he really was damned.

Gluskin chose that moment to press harder with his thumb while his mouth sank down to the base of Waylon’s cock, and everything Waylon was disappeared with a guttural groan.

The orgasm was so sudden and so powerful that Waylon had tears in in his eyes. Gluskin’s grip on his hips was bruising, his mouth working around his cock even when Waylon ejaculated into his mouth in thick spurts.

That was the only time Gluskin showed any other emotion than anger or amusement during the encounter; He gave a groan which was muffled by Waylon’s cock.

Waylon slid lifelessly from Gluskin’s grasp, resting his forearm across his eyes and panting harshly. More than anything he wanted to pull Gluskin down with him, but his arms felt like rubber.

Gluskin leaned back on his heels, staring down Waylon’s body with a strange look on his face, his hands hanging limply by his side. Waylon moved his arm away from his eyes and studied Gluskin’s face.

“You okay?” Waylon sat up gingerly, and put his arm on Gluskin’s chest. Gluskin didn’t move like he normally would, just stared back at him.

“I’m supposed to deny my will, letting go of my attachments, my preferences, my appetites, my ego. Yet, I fail every time.”

“But why? What do you gain from it?” Waylon asked softly, and tightened his hold on Gluskin's shirt.

“Gain?” Gluskin spat, animation back in his face. “None of this is for gain, it’s for God. For His love,” he paused. “For it is love that binds the hands of God.” Gluskin bowed his head.

“What happened to you?” Waylon breathed, for he realized that all of this went far beyond any normal amount of love or fear of God.

“What do you do when sin is forced upon you?” Gluskin said, and Waylon clamped his mouth shut in surprise. “What do you do when you’re too young to understand the ramifications?”

Waylon pulled the cheap blanket over himself, hiding his naked body from Gluskin’s eyes while simultaneously trying to shield himself from the reality of what Gluskin was telling him.

“You said once you had to believe, and you have no idea how true that rang to me. I too have to believe.” Gluskin moved his hands up to Waylon’s, and moved their hands down between them. He caressed Waylon's hands gently, and a part of Waylon reveled in the fact that he had yet to push him away.

“Why?”

“I have to believe that through humble and constant prayer, I’ll find the medicine that will finally heal me,” Gluskin shut his eyes tightly at that, like the confession pained him.

Waylon felt dirty for knowing more about Gluskin than Gluskin had ever shared with him, and even more so because the pieces were slowly starting to fit.  
  
"What are you trying to tell me?"  
  
Gluskin's eyes snapped to his, and he narrowed them. "You aren't my mother," he sneered, before his expression changed. "Good thing because I doubt you'd be so willing to stand idly by. But it also means that I don't owe you any explanations."

“You’re starting to scare me,” Waylon whispered.

“Good,” Gluskin smiled without any real humour, his smile wide and terrifying. “I should scare you, just like you scare me.”

“Me?” Waylon laughed in disbelief. "How can I ever scare you?"

“My life was fine until you came here. I don’t yet understand why you had to come at all. I had a routine, a purpose, and I was finally clean.”

“You’re still-”

“No,” Gluskin cut him off, getting to his feet. “You don’t understand, Waylon, but maybe I can _make_ you understand.”

His hand shot out to Waylon’s neck and he pulled him out of bed.

“Wait, what are you do-Stop!” Waylon cried out, hands clawing at Gluskin’s hold, but he didn’t even seem to notice. He just walked them over to the farthest wall, and forced Waylon down in a kneeling position on the floor.

“Fold your hands and pray Waylon. Pray for your wicked soul, and pray for mine.”

Waylon stared stiffly at the floor, the tears from his orgasm finally spilling over and hitting the cheap motel carpet beneath him.

"I said _fold_ them!" Gluskin snapped and released his hold for a moment so he could press Waylon's hands together. At first Waylon was too shocked to obey him, and Gluskin squeezed his fingers together until his bones painfully ground together before he finally did. Then Gluskin resumed his hold on his head, pushing it down in a mockery of prayer.

“I prayed for things to be different,” Waylon finally choked out, and Gluskin’s fingers twitched on top of his head. “Maybe I should have prayed to be better, prayed for my situation to change.”

Gluskin didn’t say anything, just breathed harshly.

“I came here looking-” Waylon swallowed. “For something. I had no idea, I-”

It would have been so much easier if he hadn’t come here. If Miles hadn’t talked him into this. If he had just stayed in his comfortable little life far away from this. Well, comfortable unless you looked too close, but he could have lived with that.

He hadn’t allowed himself to cry after Lisa, Michael and Alfie died. He’d see everything replay in flashes, the rain that had fallen that day, the sharp turn of the road and the driver that was suddenly on the wrong side of it, never able to do a thing about it. The sound of the sirens ringing in the night, approaching quickly, but never quickly enough. He’d looked into the face of his high-school sweetheart, seen the lights dim and disappear from her eyes and known things would never be the same. He had stood over the small, white caskets for his sons, knowing he was a different man.

But he hadn’t cried.

He had carried that sorrow like a tumor, felt it change shape and decrease in size, but carried it with him nonetheless. And if his days were a little sad and a little lonely, then maybe that was just a testament to his love for his family who was no more.

Yet here he was on his knees, completely beaten down, and he felt tears spilling from his eyes. Maybe it was the culmination of everything that had lead him here, maybe some physical reaction after his orgasm. Waylon didn’t care. He still felt like he had let everyone down, not just Lisa, but Miles, himself and maybe even Gluskin.

“I just wanted-” he sniffed, his hands shaking. “I needed to know if I still had the capacity to feel.”

“Maybe you are in need of a cure as well,” Gluskin said. “Maybe you came here to be saved.”

“I don’t feel saved,” Waylon whispered, looking down at his fingers who had gone pale from the force of his folded hands.

“Then they cried to the Lord in their trouble, and he saved them from their distress; he sent out his word and healed them, and delivered them from destruction. Let them thank the Lord for his steadfast love, for his wonderful works to humankind,” Gluskin murmured, his voice void of emotion, like he was reading the words from a book. “God’s love can heal you too, darling.”

No, Waylon definitely didn’t feel saved or healed. He felt sick to his heart, sick to his stomach and his knees and neck hurt from the awkward angle Gluskin had forced him into.

“Did you kill all those kids?” The words slipped from his lips before he had a chance to reconsider, and above him Gluskin released his hold on his head.

“What?”

“All those kids,” Waylon raised his head enough to look up at Gluskin, who had taken a step back. “Did you force them to set themselves on fire to be healed?”

“Is that what you think?” Gluskin whispered tonelessly, his shoulders slumping a little. “Is that why you-”

“What am I supposed to think? What is this?” Waylon did a gesture to his naked and still-kneeling body. “This talk of sin and corruption.”

All the blood had left Gluskin’s face, leaving it pale and sickly in the darkened room.

“I would never allow any harm come to any child, not after-” Gluskin shook his head. “I wouldn't.”

“You keep talking about damnation. How do I know you haven’t told some impressionable kid the same?”

Gluskin flinched, but stayed quiet.

“You’re supposed to be my mentor, and-” Waylon had to stop himself from saying anymore, running his hands through his hair. “It’s all gone wrong.”

“I'm terribly sorry, I-” Gluskin finally said, hanging his head low. "Please forgive me."

Before Waylon had the chance to stop him, Gluskin crossed the floor without turning to look back at him, and opened the door to the outside. And just like that, as suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone.

Waylon sat with his face turned to the door, still on his knees and still with folded hands, before he shakily got back up. Then he turned around and walked into the bathroom so he could empty the contents of his stomach in the toilet.

Even after washing his hands with scolding hot water and almost emptying the soap dispenser, he still didn't feel clean.


	10. Chapter 10

“So I take it didn’t go over too well between you and the deacon?”

Waylon was too tired to be impressed by Miles’ usual clairvoyance, and reached instead for the increasingly tacky coffee cup he’d used this past week. Had he even washed it? He wasn’t sure.

“I may have accidentally asked if he killed kids in his spare time.” Waylon said in a tone he hoped made the topic closed for further questioning.

“You-” Miles gasped, knocking over his own coffee cup in the process. “You didn’t!” Apparently he wasn’t about to catch Waylon’s hint on the matter, or, by the looks of it, clean up the coffee that had splashed over his notebook.

“Sorry,” Waylon mumbled and took a sip from his cup. He gave a grimace at the taste. Yeah, he definitely hadn’t been washing it.

“Well?” Miles said after a brief pause, leaning across the cheap motel desk. “What did he say?”

“He got upset and left,” Waylon pushed his cup around, trying to avoid Miles’ all-knowing gaze. He didn’t want to say too much about the whole incident. “Said he’d never hurt a child.”

“Aha, never hurt a _child_ , huh?” Miles grabbed his notebook, shook the coffee off, and scribbled furiously. “The usual response would be ‘ _anyone_ ’.”

“Oh, save it, Miles, really,” Waylon said tiredly, taking another sip before thinking better of it. “If he’s behind this, then he’s worthy of an Oscar.” He ignored the look Miles shot him and continued on without giving Miles the chance to disagree. “Anyway, how did you do?”

“Hunted down that Walker guy,” Miles said, shaking his head. “Couldn’t have gotten more than two words in before he called me a pig and told me to beat off.”

Waylon snorted and laughed. “Well, he ain’t wrong.”

“Hey, I resent that,” Miles sighed a ran a hand through his hair. “Anyway, that Father Martin character is next on my list, see if I can find anything on him and his benefactor Blaire. And honestly, I’m not giving up on that Walker guy either.”

“Anything I should be doing?”

“I’d say go back to the church and talk to your fellow Catholics, but I dunno, man. Still no word back on why this Gluskin guy was committed,” Miles pushed his chair back and stretched. “Judging by the look on your face though, maybe you should just stay here?”

“And do what? Enjoy the magic of pay-per-view?”

“I’d say go sightseeing, but eh, it’s _Leadville_ ,” Miles grimaced.

Waylon chuckled. Miles preferred big cities and lots of lights and life, places very far removed from the sleepy little town of Leadville. Waylon stared out the window, at the dreary parking lot, but imagined the rest of the city and the view to the mountains surrounding it. Being here, he’d started thinking more and more about the possibility of leaving Denver behind and finding a small town for himself to settle down. Maybe he’d find the peace he was craving somewhere far away from what he had.

“Hey, you listening?” Miles had his usual tone of voice, but Waylon could see the worry in his eyes. “You’re spacing out on me.”

“Didn’t get enough sleep,” Waylon fibbed, knowing fully well that Miles would see straight through it. “What did you say?”

“I asked if maybe you’d be willing to talk to Father Martin again, maybe get some information on Gluskin.”

Waylon frowned. “I could, probably, but I’m not so sure if-”

“Great! We’ll meet back up here at nine-ish?” Miles swooped his notebook up from the table and gave Waylon a wink.

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” Waylon waved him off, spending the following minutes in pensive silence.  
  


* * *

  
Waylon purposely waited for afternoon before he made his way back to the church, desperately wishing in the back of his mind that the church was deserted. As soon as he walked up though, he saw Father Martin standing outside with a man in an expensive looking suit. At least he couldn’t see Eddie anywhere.

“Good afternoon, Waylon,” Father Martin nodded.

“Good afternoon, Father Martin,” Waylon bowed his head slightly. “I was hoping I could get a word, once you’re free?”

“Oh, of course, of course,” Father Martin smiled warmly, before remembering the man beside him. “Waylon, I’d like you to meet the benefactor of our church, Mr. Jeremy Blaire.”

The man in the suit, Blaire, turned and shot a measured glance Waylon’s way. He seemed very put together, hair carefully arranged and his mustache neatly trimmed. Waylon disliked him immediately, and, judging by the look in Blaire’s eyes, the feeling was mutual.

“Oh, of course!” Waylon stammered, reaching his hand out. “What a pleasure to meet you.”

Jeremy Blaire looked down at his hand with a grimace before offering his own.

“Ditto.” He shook Waylon's hand with a weak grip, like he found the very idea of touching him revolting.

“I was just asking Mr. Blaire if he will join us for a church barbeque this Friday, and the invitation goes for you as well, Waylon.”

Something glinted in Blaire’s eyes. “I’m afraid I’ll be preoccupied with work, but maybe another time.”

“Ah, yes, of course. I heard you’ve been making progress with the new medication?”

Blaire didn’t seem too happy about the question, and he cast another glance Waylon’s way before answering. “Preliminary findings are… Promising,” he offered vaguely.

“Oh, how exciting. Are you a real doctor?” It burst out before Waylon had the chance to stop it, figuring this opportunity was the only one he’d get, and Blaire turned slowly to him and gave him a leveled stare.

“That depends on what you mean by _doctor_. I have a doctorate, but no, I’m not going to check your tonsils.” He let his eyes purposefully trail away, making Waylon flush a little. Even if it was mostly an act, Waylon didn’t like feeling as dumb as this guy made him feel.

“Where do you work?” Waylon continued, knowing he probably wouldn't get any chances to talk to the guy ever again after the fiasco of the situation, and even Father Martin shifted in second-hand embarrassment next to him.

“My head office is in Denver, but I spend some time here at Leadville,” Blaire gritted out the words, and turned to Father Martin. “We’ll continue our conversation later, when the streets aren’t so-” he looked over at Waylon. “Crowded,” he spat the word, and didn’t wait for Father Martin to respond, just crossed the parking lot over to an expensive looking black car.

Father Martin sighed and smiled warily at Waylon before gesticulating to the church.

“I’ll have to ask you to forgive Mr. Blaire. I’m afraid his manners aren’t always… Well.” He smiled and together they walked in silence up the few steps and into the church.

Waylon was always struck by how peaceful the church seemed, even after what happened there between him and Gluskin. The whole building had a peace to it he hadn’t found anywhere else. Strange that he'd feel that way now, considering how uncomfortable he had found it before.

He trailed his hand along the intricately carved wooden pews as he followed Father Martin, his mind wandering. He tried to imagine all the hands that must have touched them in the past. There was something comforting about that thought, that his problems didn’t mean anything in the big picture.

That’s what the minister had said in the funeral, that all things shall pass, and at the time Waylon hadn’t understood what he meant or how he could even say it. Life really did go on though, pain was illusive and impossible to cling to in the long run. It was as if his mind was shifting and bending, healing him without him even realizing, though the original parts were still present. Maybe it just got redecorated so he could fit other people, new experiences, and feelings he thought he would never feel again.

He raised his head and stared at the statue of Christ above the altar. The late afternoon light shone in through the stained glass windows, bathing Christ’s face in softly muted colours. If there really was a God, then what would he make of Waylon? Of Gluskin? Would they be branded sinners for what they did? Or would He consider the things about them worth saving? Waylon wasn’t sure. Maybe it didn’t matter in the end. He found it hard to imagine loving a vengeful God.

Still, he bowed his head and crossed himself once he reached the altar.

“Anything in particular you wanted to see me about?” Father Martin asked gently as he ushered Waylon into his office.

“Actually, yes. Gluskin told me he’s a permanent deacon here, and I’m wondering if that’s something I could be in time as well?”

Father Martin’s brow quirked before he answered. “Of course.” Then he seemed to compose himself as he continued. “There are some rules; you have to be baptized in Roman Catholic Church and be past the age of thirty-five.” Father Martin reached across his desk and patted Waylon’s hand. “Eddie told me of your late wife, and I’m so terribly sorry. I must tell you that if you become a deacon whilst unmarried or widowed, then it’s expected of you to be celibate for the rest of your life.”

“Gluskin told me you didn’t think him fit for priesthood?” Waylon asked, using the quick transition to judge the look on Father Martin’s face.

Father Martin shifted slightly and pulled his hand back, but he didn’t seem altogether surprised by the question. “Eddie, as devoted and well-respected as he is, isn’t without his faults.”

“Are any of us?” Waylon countered, and Father Martin gave a weak smile.

“Indeed, Waylon, as I’m sure you’ve experienced.” Father Martin leaned slowly back in his chair, and his face was more speculative than Waylon liked. “Have you not?”

“I thought the Catholic church spread the word of forgiveness?” Waylon asked instead of answering the question, and caught the fleeting frown on Father Martin’s face when he did.

“Of course, and Eddie submitted an application for canonical dispensations for past misconduct and agreed to a psychological evaluation.” Father Martin smiled. “He is forgiven, but that doesn’t mean he’s fit for priesthood.”

“I see,” Waylon mumbled.

“Has he been a good mentor for you?” There was a little catch at the end of his words, like Father Martin meant to ask something more.

“Yes,” Waylon deadpanned, not needing to think the question through. He felt a sudden, inexplicable need to defend him, despite the still-aching pain in his hands and knees. “That’s why I’m wondering, because he seems so-” Waylon paused for the word. “Devout.”

“It’s correct as you say, we teach and learn to hate the sin, not the sinner, but even so-” Father Martin creased his forehead. “Certain things about Eddie’s past make him unsuitable for priesthood, and I’m afraid I’m not the only one feeling that way.”

“He told me about his past struggle with mental health,” Waylon lied smoothly for the first time in his life, and before him Father Martin seemed surprised.

“Did he really? Well, that’s-” Father Martin leaned back. “That is unexpected.”

“I suppose I just find it sad that the church can’t look past those kind of struggles,” Waylon said slowly, folding his hands in his laps while trying to look as innocent as possible

“Oh, but it isn’t his mental illness or subsequent admission to a mental health facility that makes him unsuited, do not worry about that, Waylon. We’ve come further than that.”

“That’s a relief.”

Father Martin took a deep breath and stared off into the distance, and Waylon got the distinct impression he was feeling guilty.

“Sins can be forgiven,” he said slowly, as if weighing each word. “but certain criminal activities, even when not done in a willful mind, well-” Father Martin leaned forward again, seemingly not aware of what he’d just shared. “Eddie has blossomed as a permanent deacon, and I’m happy for that.”

“I am too.” Waylon forced himself to keep smiling, to hide the fact that he was taken aback with what the priest had just said. Father Martin continued, with a slow blink, as though he didn’t find the stiff grimace on Waylon’s face suspicious at all.

“My biggest fear is that the press will get a hold of Eddie’s past and use that against him, especially during these trying times, with the missing and dead children.”

Waylon felt the back of his neck tighten, like someone was standing right behind him, and he had to resist the urge to look. The previously comforting half-darkness in the office suddenly felt repressive and dangerous, and he imagined if he turned, he’d turn to find the cult looking back at him.

“No, I agree, that would be terrible," he said weakly.

“Indeed,” Father Martin said, and there was something knowing and calculating in his eyes that made Waylon swallow thickly.

“So you never suspected him?” Waylon tried to keep his tone calm, though the conversation felt like it had crumbled completely out of his control.

“Not for a second,” Father Martin said firmly.

“I talked to some people at the flea market, and they mentioned something about perversion of faith?”

“Indeed. I’m not sure how familiar you are with it, but fire is quite a common theme in the Bible.” The harsh lines on Father Martin’s smoothed out some. “Used both as cleansing and as punishment. Allow me,” Father Martin got a sudden, rapt expression on his face as he started to recite from the Bible. “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you.” When he was done he stared expectantly at Waylon, who in turn looked back in total bewilderment.

“That’s-” Waylon stuttered. “That’s nice?”

“But what does it mean to you, Waylon?” Father Martin said, and it was a testament to his patience that he didn’t let Waylon’s comment colour his words.

“To me? That God will protect me from harm.”

“Exactly, but it does not tell us if these are literal waters and literal fires, or if it’s a metaphor for the struggles we all inevitably have to go through.” He paused before he continued. “To most it’s an expression at the utmost perils, and not as any physical test of the love of God.”

“So you’re saying this is the work of someone who isn’t familiar with the Bible?”

“Yes, and no. I fear it’s something far worse, someone who _knows_ the scripture, but does not fully understand the meaning of it.”

Waylon pondered the words for a moment. Surely Gluskin both knew and understood the Bible, the question was if he’d be able to push that knowledge into something else. Father Martin was studying the look on his face when Waylon finally focused back on his surroundings.

“In the Bible, fire is pictured as the final curse, and while it’s true that it’s used as a symbol of purification, that doesn’t mean we’re supposed to set ourselves on fire to reach God’s grace.” Father Martin had lost his previous expression, but gained one that felt almost as difficult to decipher; Something soft and gentle.

“I think I understand what you mean,” Waylon said slowly. “It’s not always ignorance that is the real danger?”

“Knowledge and an intent to hurt is a far more dangerous thing, yes,” Father Martin said grimly, and folded his hands. “We’ve been assured that the police are working their hardest to catch them, so now we just have to put our faith in both God and police.”

There was a twinkle in Father Martin’s eyes, and Waylon was thankful for the welcomed shift of tone in the conversation.

“I want to thank you again for answering my questions and welcoming me to the parish,” Waylon offered a smile, which Father Martin returned.

“Of course. Nothing is more important than real understanding, Waylon, and I hope in time you’ll feel enough at home not to thank me for things I need not be thanked for. I am very happy that you’ve joined us.”

“Well, in either case I thank you for your time.” Waylon smiled and reluctantly got up. “You’ve helped ease my mind.” He bowed his head.

There was always a chance that the device strapped to his body would fail to function, but he hoped they wouldn’t have in this case. He hoped Miles would listen to it, and find it as enlightening as he himself had.

“You care about him, don’t you?” Father Martin interrupted his thoughts as Waylon turned to leave, and there was something undeniably soft about his voice.

Waylon froze for a second, not completely sure what he meant by the question, but he still answered truthfully.

“Yes, I do.”

“I’m so pleased. I watched him grow up, and this is the first time I feel like he's ever had a friend.” Father Martin paused for a moment before continuing. “He’s had such a troubled past, and all I've ever wanted is for Eddie to be happy.”

Waylon felt his chest clench with a sudden tightness at the thought of a young, lonely Gluskin. The adult one seemed set on pushing people away, but he doubted a child would be the same.

“Then I’m happy too, and I hope I can be a good friend to him.” Waylon’s voice had gotten thick with emotion, and he cleared his throat to hide it.

“I’m sure you will.” Father Martin smiled again. “Now, have a good evening.”

Waylon nodded and closed the door carefully behind him, mindful not to disrupt the serenity of the church. He walked slowly, thinking about things he probably ought not to think about.

More than anything he wished to discuss Gluskin’s shifting moods, and his own reactions to it, but he knew he couldn’t talk to either Miles or Father Martin about it. Maybe yet another thing he didn’t want to disturb, like a clear pond where there was something lurking right beneath the surface.

Waylon sighed and tousled his hair. He wished he could get a glimpse of something, anything, without having to put his whole head under water, because right now he was afraid he'd drown if he did.


	11. Chapter 11

He found himself nestled inside a bush half an hour later, without any real explanation on how he got there. That was the thing about Miles. He’d say you were going down to the convenience store at the corner, and then you’d find yourself in Mexico on a mule instead.

“So, uh,” Waylon said, but he didn’t get the chance to finish his sentence because Miles shushed him.

“Be quiet!” he hissed, and resumed his unblinking stare out at the path in front of them.

They were hiding on a grassy slope in the local park, and Miles had already made himself a little nest inside the bush, complete with two fresh take-out coffees, a camera and his increasingly splotchy notebook.

“Why are we here?” Waylon whispered, and this time Miles didn’t answer at all, just pointed to a lone figure jogging towards them. Without a word he brought his camera up to his face.

It didn’t take Waylon more than a second to realize that it had to be Chris Walker. Gluskin had been right, he really wasn’t hard to miss, and for the first time he wondered if some of Miles’ conspiracy theories were correct. If Waylon had thought Gluskin big and tall, then Chris was monstrous. Maybe there really was something in the water.

Chris was jogging, though it didn’t resemble the awkward, breathless runs that Waylon would go on, no, it didn’t even look like he had broken a sweat, his face void of emotion as he jogged past their bush.

“Did you catch that?” Miles put his camera down and did that weird breathless, yet still somehow energetic whisper before he almost knocked Waylon over when he sent an elbow into his ribs.

“Ouch, shit, catch what?” Waylon shoved Miles back, but it didn’t seem to bother Miles in any measurable way. “So the army buff works out, is that really newsworthy?”

“Ah, Way, you got a lot to learn, man.” Miles started putting things away with a big grin, but didn’t explain what it was he had seen. “Anyway. did you get lucky?”

Waylon flushed even though he knew what Miles was asking.

“Actually, yes. That Jeremy Blaire guy was at the church. Said he had a medical degree in a snooty manner.”

“What, he just said that?” Miles snickered. “Name’s Jeremy with a Ph and a D?”

“Well, no, but just listen to the tape. He’s a douche. Also talked to Father Martin.”

“Great, I’ll give it a listen once we get back.” Miles patted the pocket with his trusted notebook, and then he patted Waylon’s back with the same level of affection.

“Actually, I need to check something. Probably won’t get back until late.” It wasn’t a lie, but Waylon still fidgeted.

“Cool, meet up in the morning then?” Thankfully, Miles seemed too caught up with the pictures of Walker to really notice the tension on Waylon’s face.

“Deal.” Waylon smiled and got up.  
  


* * *

  
The sun had set by the time Waylon exited the park, the last rays barely escaping the horizon. The long lasting summer sun was deceptive, it was already past nine, yet it seemed like much earlier.

He knew where he needed to go, and he didn’t stop himself as he walked the familiar route to Gluskin’s shop. Probably not the wisest of moves, considering, but when had he let that stop him lately? He’d had an inkling from the start that there was more to Gluskin than what met the eye, and now that he had confirmation that he was actually a felon, well, it didn’t change as much as he would have thought. If anything, Waylon felt guilty and ashamed for luring information about him.

The main street wasn’t as deserted as the side roads, the distant murmur and laughter from people enjoying a late dinner or drinks hanging in the air. It made Waylon feel lonely. Maybe that’s why he had been so drawn to Gluskin. Maybe they recognized that loneliness in each other.

Gluskin’s shop was dark and empty when he finally reached it, but he didn’t hesitate as he knocked on the door. It took a few minutes of nervous fiddling before Gluskin appeared in the doorway.

He was still wearing the suit from before, but it seemed crumpled and disheveled compared to their earlier meeting. Gluskin observed him through the glass for a moment before reluctantly unlocking the door.

“Waylon,” he started once the barrier between them was lifted, but Waylon didn’t let him finish.

Instead he took a few steps forward, closing the gap between them, before folding his arms around Gluskin in a tight hug.

Gluskin hesitated for only a moment before returning the embrace, completely enveloping Waylon in his arms, pressing his cheek to the top of Waylon’s head.

“I’m sorry,” Waylon whispered.

“I can’t imagine what for, darling,” Gluskin murmured against his hair.

Waylon didn’t know how to answer that, so he just clung to Gluskin harder, feeling the comforting heat of his body and the rhythm of his heart just below Waylon’s ear.

They stayed like that for a long while, and if Waylon thought he had felt serenity whilst in the church, then it was nothing compared to what he felt in that moment. Embracing like this he could almost forget who they were, and why Waylon had come at all.

“You’re shivering,” Gluskin whispered softly, and Waylon hadn’t even been aware that he was. Gluskin shut the door behind them, and before Waylon had a chance to protest Gluskin had him scooped up in his arms like a bride, and he made his way over to the stairs.

Waylon already knew Gluskin was strong, but it was something else entirely to be picked up and carried like he didn’t weigh a thing. He trailed his hands across Gluskin’s upper arms, and glanced up at his face. Gluskin looked determined, his jaw set and his eyebrows gently cinched together, and Waylon was again struck with the knowledge that he didn't know this man or what he was capable of.

“Where are we going?” Waylon asked, knowing fully well where Gluskin was headed.

“Despite everything, all I’ve ever wanted is to lie next to you,” Gluskin responded.

Despite the more rational voice in the back of his head, Waylon nuzzled his head into Gluskin’s neck and allowed Gluskin to carry him through his apartment and into the bedroom Waylon already knew.

Gluskin placed Waylon carefully down before climbing in next to him. Waylon had expected him to go back to _the other Gluskin_ , the one obsessed with sin and corruption, but Gluskin simply laid down, pulling Waylon closer without any attempts at anything more.

Waylon had his head rested on Gluskin’s chest again and he heard Gluskin’s heartbeat slow down and stabilize. With a sigh Waylon closed his eyes.

“What’s your name?” he asked gently, even though he knew the answer.

“Eddie.”

“Hi, Eddie,” Waylon whispered, feeling like they had just met for the first time.

“Hello, Waylon,” Eddie replied and tightened his hold on him.

They laid like that in comfortable silence, before Eddie spoke again. "I can't explain why I keep trying to push you away. Why I keep away despite the good you do to me."

 _Because your God does not allow it?_ Waylon didn't speak the words out loud, basking instead in the warmth of Eddie's body. He didn't dare ruin the soothing comfort of their embrace.

"Maybe I'm fearful of the joy you bring me."

Waylon pressed closer, resting his hand around Eddie’s waist. He liked hearing Eddie say these things out loud. Hear him voice his doubts. Maybe this could be a new beginning of sorts. It certainly felt that way. Waylon closed his eyes. He desperately needed it to be, because he realized he couldn’t think of the two of them in any other way than together. And he could never think of Eddie the way he had. He could never look into those eyes and see anything other than someone human, someone complex and struggling.

Someone breakable.


	12. Chapter 12

When he woke up life had returned to what it was supposed to be. There was another living, breathing human being next to him, warm and relaxed in sleep, and Waylon kept his eyes closed just in case it was a dream.

Laying like this reminded him of a much simpler time. A time where pain and loss held no real resonance in his heart, and he curled against Eddie fervently. It wasn’t that he wished Eddie was Lisa, even though it pained him no matter how he looked at it, no, he just wished to own that old comfort of happiness and tranquility again.

Waylon opened first one eye, then the other, realizing for the first time how close to Eddie he really was. Their faces were just inches apart, Eddie’s arm wrapped around Waylon’s waist.

Eddie was still asleep, his face open and relaxed. Waylon studied his features, taking in all the details he could; The slight line between his eyebrows, the surprising fullness of his lips and the way his black eyelashes contrasted against pale skin. Despite certain fine features, Waylon supposed Eddie wasn’t a traditionally handsome man, yet he effected Waylon far more than any man Waylon had ever met before. That thought scared him, for more than one reason.

But that was just it, wasn’t it? What he was afraid of was right there. It was there whenever he looked at Eddie, whenever they touched, whenever they spoke. Waylon swallowed heavily. It was right there, but he was too afraid to look.

Eddie shifted in his sleep, tightening his hold around Waylon’s waist before pulling him closer. He did the same as he had most of the previous night; Nuzzling his nose in Waylon’s hair with a deep sigh.

Waylon pressed himself against Eddie, splaying a hand across his chest so he could feel the solid assurance of Eddie’s heartbeat against his palm.

“You’re here,” Eddie murmured in half-sleep, voicing the exact words Waylon felt.

“So are you.”

They observed each other in silence, Eddie only moving to push a stray hair away from Waylon’s eyes.

Waylon didn’t want to break the silence, and especially not with what he needed to say, but that was just it: He needed to say them.

“Have you ever thought about leaving Leadville?”

Eddie didn’t answer right away, just froze a little, his whole body still for a few heartbeats. “I’m not sure it would change anything,” he finally said.

“I used to feel that no matter where I went I couldn’t escape _me_ ,” Waylon said carefully, and Eddie looked at him with those pale eyes Waylon could no longer read. “After coming here, I feel-” he paused, awkwardly, before continuing. “I feel like maybe, at the right place, there’s no need to escape me anymore.”

“For me it’s not so much escaping as feeling alone,” Eddie said, and there was something almost apprehensive about the way he glanced down at Waylon’s face. “That I am alone in a world that will just keep on going whether I am here or not.”

“You’re not alone,” Waylon whispered, his hand finding Eddie’s so he could twine their fingers together.

Eddie didn’t answer, but there was something undeniably soft about the way he looked at Waylon, his lips curved in an almost smile.  
  


* * *

  
The kitchen seemed much different in the light of day, and at Eddie’s invitation he sat down at the table by the window. Perhaps it felt more tranquil since he was allowed to be here, unlike last time. Morning light bathed the small backyard in vibrant greens, and Waylon’s previous melancholy had all but completely vanished.

Eddie was humming as he prepared breakfast for them, the same song Waylon had heard him hum before, and brought over two cups of tea. Waylon accepted the cup and cradled it in his hands, enjoying the comforting heat of it.

“Don’t you have mass today?” Waylon asked and took a sip of the tea. It was the same soothing tea he’d been served before, the one that reminded him of church incense. He wondered what it contained, and if Eddie had chosen it for that exact reason.

“I’ve-” Eddie actually seemed self-conscious and he scratched the back of his head with a sheepish smile. “- decided to take a personal day.”

“Was it because of what I asked you?”

Eddie’s face seemed to darken a little at the memory.

“I want to say no, but I suppose it was.” He didn’t say anything more, but placed a basket of golden bread rolls in front of Waylon, together with a glass dish containing butter and another with marmalade.

It was far more than Waylon ever made for himself, most often than not his breakfasts consisted of little else than badly brewed coffee and leftover donuts if he was lucky, and he smiled at the sight of the hearty seeded rolls.

Then his eyes widened when Eddie kept bringing small dishes in; honey, boiled eggs and cured meats, even a small dish with yogurt drizzled with honey and nuts, and soon the small kitchen table was filled with more dishes than Waylon knew what to do with. Eddie didn’t seem to think anything of it, he just sat down opposite of Waylon, and when he finally looked at Waylon, it was with soft eyes and a half-smile.

He really did look quite different when smiling, Waylon thought, and he found himself smiling back.

“Please,” Eddie said and offered Waylon a roll from the basket. “Help yourself.”

“Aren’t we, you know, supposed to give a prayer before the meal?”

“If you wish.”

The answer surprised Waylon, and he watched Eddie as he bowed his head to say grace.

"Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord. Amen." Eddie said quickly, and crossed himself when he was done. Waylon followed his example, but instead of keeping his eyes downcast, like Eddie did, he kept his eyes on Eddie’s face.

“I’m not sure I’ve seen this much food outside a hotel,” Waylon admitted after the prayer was done, and spread butter and golden honey on one side of his roll.

“My mother was Polish,” Eddie said with a fond smile, and poured himself some tea. “Her family, my family, came here for a better life, and my mother always said that a better life started with a bountiful breakfast.”

“So Gluskin is a Polish name?”

“Gluskin is my father’s surname,” Eddie said, and something dark came over his eyes again. “German, I believe. He was a farmer, and a poor one at that, and my mother’s family greatly disapproved of the union.”

Waylon nodded, and asked nothing more about it, because Eddie’s fists had become tight again, his brow furrowed. Waylon made a mental note not to mention Eddie’s family again.

Despite his previous words of a bountiful breakfast, Eddie only took half a roll, and didn’t put anything on it. Waylon studied him as he took a careful bite of it, but said nothing.

They ate in silence after that, a comfortable silence, and Waylon allowed himself to enjoy the moment. It felt blissfully domestic, and a far cry from the rest of his stay in Leadville.  
  


* * *

  
“Before you go, I-” Eddie “There’s something I wanted you to have.”

Waylon turned to him, surprised, and as Eddie could sense his uneasiness, he closed the distance between them and cupped Waylon’s face.

“Don’t look so surprised, darling,” he murmured, and led Waylon over to the plush armchair by the window, and gestured for him to sit down. “There’s nothing to worry about. Wait here.”

Then he walked into his bedroom, and Waylon glanced around the room in nervous anticipation, as he heard Eddie’s dresser being opened. He hoped Eddie wasn’t gonna pull out the nipple clamps and offer them to him.

Eddie returned a minute later with his hands behind his back and an almost childish expression on his face. Then he knelt down in front of Waylon and grasped Waylon’s hands, and in a terrifying moment Waylon almost thought he was about to propose.

Instead he placed something in Waylon’s hand, and Waylon raised it up to his face to look at it. It was a intricately crafted silver rosary, so thin and delicate that Waylon almost feared touching it. He stroked the prayer beads carefully.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured.

“It was my mother’s,” Eddie explained, clearly pleased by the expression on Waylon’s face. “Handed down to the women in the family for generations. She wanted me to give it to a future wife,” he paused then, and seemed embarrassed.

Waylon swallowed. Apparently he hadn’t been too far off when he worried about a wedding proposal. Noticing the look on Waylon’s face, Eddie cleared his throat.

“I’m not saying you’re a woman or my future wife, I just-” He wrapped both of Waylon’s hands carefully around the rosary, the action very far removed from the previous day. “I wanted you to have it.”

“Thank you,” Waylon whispered. “I’ll treasure it.”

Eddie watched him as he carefully unfurled his hand, and let his hands trail over the beads again. Each one felt like a promise. Or a possibility. He looked up at Eddie's face, and watched his expression carefully before letting his eyes trail down to Eddie's lips. Eddie must have seen his eyes wander, because he shifted, adding more distance between them in an almost imperceptible way.

“Come with me,” Waylon breathed, and Eddie’s eyes widened. “It doesn’t even have to be Denver, we could go wherever.” Waylon felt his heart speed up with the madness of what he was proposing.

“You know I can’t,” Eddie said softly. “My purpose is here.”

“At least-” Waylon swallowed. “At least think it over.”

“I will, darling,” Eddie replied and this time his lips curved in an actual smile.  
  


* * *

  
Waylon was smiling. An honest, wide smile that he felt unable to shake. Even Leadville seemed brighter somehow. He almost felt drunk.

He couldn’t even figure out if he had a real reason to be happy. Eddie hadn’t agreed to anything, but the quiet half-hour they had shared before Waylon had to go, well, it had been everything Waylon needed at that moment.

The plan had been to meet back up at the motel, but Miles didn’t specify what time, so Waylon decided to take a walk around Leadville instead, taking in the old buildings, and the mountains towering around them. It really was pretty here.

Before heading back to the motel he decided to have a quiet lunch alone, and chose a small cafe next to the motel. From the outside it looked more like a home than an establishment, with flowers under the windows and brightly painted walls. It was strange, how everything had seemed so run down and gloomy on his first day here, and now things had opened up for him in a whole new way.

He ordered a turkey sandwich with avocado and it was every bit as good as in the organic cafes back home. If it was a bit later in the day he’d buy himself a drink, but he settled for a hot cup of quality coffee instead. After a week of cheap tasteless powder, the real deal was like a revelation, and he sat there in sated silence, halfway grinning to himself like an idiot while picking off pieces of his sandwich and looking at the rosary he had arranged on the table.

Once his sandwich was eaten and his cup empty, he payed and tipped generously before making his way back to the motel.

Miles’ car was still parked outside his room, so Waylon walked right up to his door instead of taking a detour to his own.

“It’s open!” Miles called out when Waylon knocked, and Waylon let himself in.

“What if I was a cultist or som-” Waylon cut himself off as he got an overview of the room.

In the few hours he had been gone, Miles had stapled more sheets of papers to the wall, and his once neatly written map over people of interest had turned into a clutter of names, pictures and numbers. Above it he had written ‘Walrider’ in big bold letters, though Waylon had no idea what that might mean. Miles was sitting cross-legged on the bed, flipping through papers and mumbling to himself.

“What happened here?” Waylon picked up a few styrofoam cups with some truly questionable content before grimacing and tossing it in the trash.

“Someone owed me some favors,” Miles mumbled, eyes still glued to the papers in his hands. “Finally cashed out.”

“Remind me never to get on your bad side.” Waylon dumped down on the chair by the small writing desk. “So, anything new?”

“Actually, yes. I’d ask you to sit down if you weren’t already.” Miles finally put the papers down and studied Waylon’s face with a frown.

“Oh? What?”

“Edward Gluskin,” Miles started reading from the paper on top of the stack. “Born in 1967, blah, blah, blah.” He skimmed the page for a second. “Okay, here, committed voluntarily to Mount Massive for a dissociative disorder after ‘a traumatically violent sexual experience’.”

Waylon flinched. “Is it really right for us to-”

“Hold on, wait,” Miles put a finger in the air. “This is where it gets interesting. So he’s committed, right? Therapy, medication, you know the drill, he’s all better, but then, a year later, he’s back and this time it’s not voluntary.”

Waylon couldn’t even look at Miles anymore, because this was definitely wrong, but even more so because he couldn’t force himself to walk away. His stomach was churning at the thought of Eddie and some sort of sexual trauma, but he couldn't get himself to shut the information out.

“Apparently our little deacon is quite the loverman,” Miles said triumphantly, waving the piece of paper in Waylon’s face.

“What?” This time Waylon couldn’t hide his curiosity, and his heart started beating sickly against his ribs.

“Well, lets just say that he met a lot of girls, a _lot_ of girls, Waylon, and left them mutilated after he was done with them.”

“Mutil- Did he rape them?” Waylon could feel all the blood leave his face.

“No, but he cut them up and-”

“But why?”

“What? How the fuck should I know?” Miles shot Waylon an accusing look. “I'm not capable of anything like that.”

“But-” Waylon twisted his hands in his lap. “How? He’s a deacon, he’s kind, he’s…”

“Yeah, I know you’re gonna say that he’s changed and that everyone deserves a second chance, but just think about it.” Miles shoved a piece of paper into Waylon’s hand. Some of the text was blacked out, but most of it was legible. “Guy is traumatized after some sort of sexual assault, preys on women first, then graduates to children. But this time it isn’t enough to cut them, oh no, this time he’s using God, making them do this to themselves. Just imagine the power play.”

“Says here he refused to acknowledge that the women were mutilated,” Waylon whispered, his hands shaking. “That he never gave a motive.”

“Ain’t no motive for sadism,” Miles said offhandedly, already busy with another stack of papers, and he didn’t catch the frown on Waylon’s face. When he did look up Waylon had wiped his face clear of emotion and Miles’ eyes crinkled a bit when he studied Waylon’s face. “I know I don’t say it enough, but thank you.”

Waylon just smiled weakly, because truth be told, he didn’t know what to say to that. Or how to feel about it.

“So what now?” He asked instead.

“I’m tempted to start outlining the story, but I should follow up on some leads on Blaire.” Miles started reading in his notebook with a deep furrow between his eyes.

“And…?” Waylon coaxed, and Miles gave a start when he realized Waylon was still there.

“Oh, uh, well,” he mumbled, running his hand through his hair. “Honestly, I kinda want you to leave. I dunno what’s going on between you and this Gluskin character, but I don’t like it.”

Miles caught a glimpse of the look Waylon sent him and he smiled a little half-smile. “Your life is your own, Way. I know that. I just don’t wanna see you hurt again.”

“I know.” Waylon smiled and grabbed Miles’ hand. “But I’m not ready to leave just yet.”

Miles didn’t answer, just looked at him for a long moment before giving him a nod.

“Okay,” he said tightly. “Okay.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A part of this chapter was ~~totally~~ possibly-kinda-maybe inspired by a scene in [Pegacorn's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Pegacorn/pseuds/Pegacorn) lovely [On the Surface](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4502868/chapters/10238856). Thank you for the fodder!

* * *

  
Waylon paced the confines of his motel room, switching between tugging his hair absently in his hands and chewing his lips to shreds.

Miles was right, of course he was, because Miles was always right, wasn’t he? Waylon on was an express train to more hurt, and this time he was willingly getting on board unlike the last time.

 _Run, run, run_. That’s what his brain kept screaming at him, yet he kept disregarding it. He had to see this one through to the end. He clutched his head as flashes of Lisa shot through his brain, shots of Michael and Alfie broken and turned to dust. He had ran away from all of it, hadn’t he? Forced all of it so tightly inside so he didn’t have to feel at all.

Coming here had changed everything.

He had felt so anesthetized for such a long time that the sudden flux of feelings had overwhelmed him completely. Happiness, pain, arousal or fear, it didn’t even matter, he just wanted to press all the emotions close to his chest, because at least this meant he could _feel_ again.

He paused and stared down at his watch. The church barbecue was in about half an hour, and he felt sick at the thought of it. At the moment Waylon wasn’t even that concerned about whether or not Eddie was involved, he’d be happy just for clarification one way or another. His heart clenched.  
  


* * *

  
The wire was once again securely fastened to Waylon's body and Miles was somewhere out there listening in while working through his seemingly never ending list of things to check. They were _doing_ things, working, fighting to find a solution. Waylon should be relieved about that fact, but mostly he just felt lost.

Still, he knew what he had to do. Now, unfortunately, Waylon already knew that Jeremy Blaire wouldn’t be there, but the other cast of characters would, Eddie included.

Waylon hadn’t been too sure if he got the address right, but at the sight of lanterns and the sound of laughter, he knew he had found the right place. Waylon had seen enough movies from and about the 50’s to feel transported to another time once he walked around back.

Father Martin’s house was a small, two-story house, but his back porch more than made up for it: It was large, extended to a wide deck overlooking his garden with a beautiful wooden banister. It was a soft summer’s evening, the rich smell of wood and meat mixing with the flowery balminess of the air, pared with soft music and the sound of children playing. Waylon smiled and walked around the garden, staring at the small lanterns in the trees. It was magical.

Once he turned to the group of people gathered at the porch, his eyes were immediately drawn to Eddie. He was sitting in a corner, taking to a small group of people, but his gaze was on Waylon when Waylon looked at him. God, Waylon was certain they could all see the fire burning there. Both in Eddie’s eyes and the smile Waylon sent him in return.

As he watched, children started gathering around Eddie, and it almost looked like they all gravitated towards him like he was a sun. Two of them climbed onto his wide lap and started pinching his cheeks. Eddie seemed lighter somehow, with them around, but it almost felt wrong, perverse even, watching them laugh and pull on Eddie’s shirt, not knowing what he was. Or what he had been. Waylon found it hard to believe that Eddie had hurt anyone, but at the same time- He found it completely believable.

Still, watching him like that made something flutter in Waylon’s stomach. He could almost, _almost_ , imagine Alfie and Michael sit on his lap like that. He could almost imagine a future for them together, maybe on a porch like this. Waylon shook his head.

“What do you think?”

Father Martin had come up to Waylon without him even realizing, and for a second Waylon got the impression Father Martin had read his thoughts. Waylon forced a smile. “It’s beautiful here, really, thank you for inviting me.”

Father Martin waved his hand. “Of course, of course. You’re always welcome here, Waylon. Don't ever doubt that.”

“It’s a shame Mr. Blaire couldn’t join us, I’d love to get to know the benefactor of such a beautiful church and parish a bit better.”

Father Martin seemed to preen a little at the words, clearly proud and smiled. “Well, there’s always other opportunities, Waylon, be sure of that. Now, please follow me and be sure to enjoy the evening.”

“I'm sure I will,” Waylon smiled and nodded, and followed Father Martin onto the porch.

“Everyone, you know Waylon Park, the newest member of the church, I’m sure.”

People smiled and patted Waylon’s back, and again Waylon was left feeling like a total asshole for coming here. Especially knowing that Miles might be hiding somewhere in the woods around them, snatching pictures and listening in on their conversations. Or, you know, he was somewhere else entirely, hunting Bigfoot and Chupacabras. You never knew with Miles.

Someone pushed a plate of food into Waylon’s hands, and guided him over to an empty seat near an open fire pit, which Waylon thankfully sank into. The fire heated his skin, a nice compliment to the slight chill of the wind. The plate of food was warm too, filled to the brink with hearty, homemade mashed potatoes, corn on the cob and ribs.

Eddie sat across from him, staring at Waylon with a indecipherable look on his face. He wasn’t eating, Waylon noticed, nothing but a full glass of water by his side.

Waylon was famished though, so he quickly dug into his meal. The meat was flavourful, different than what Waylon was used to, tender and fatty, like pork, but still somewhat unusual. Unfamiliar seasonings, no doubt, but teamed with the creamy mashed potatoes it was the best meal Waylon had eaten in a long time.

When he raised his head, Eddie was scrutinizing him with narrowed eyes, though Waylon wasn’t sure why. He didn’t have time to dwell on it, because a man with a scruffy beard dumped down in the seat next to Waylon with a smile.

“Meat’s mine,” he winked, and Waylon almost choked on his rib.

“I’m sorry?” Waylon spluttered. “Did I accidentally steal your…?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” the man laughed. “I mean, it comes from my diner. Good, yeah? Told the wife to fix ya up a plate, you looked hungry for meat.”

“Oh, err,” Waylon flushed a little, scratching his neck. “I guess I was, thank you.”

They sat in silence for a while, the bearded man -Frank, if Waylon’s memory served him- stared at him expectantly to eat more of the ribs.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you around church?” Waylon finally asked.

“Me?” Frank laughed. “I’m no church material, kid. Wife’s into that stuff, not me.” He leaned back with a smirk. “Well, it’s not completely true.” He pulled his shirt up and revealed a large tattoo on his side with a Celtic cross and someone Waylon assumed was Jesus and the Virgin Mary. “But I lost my faith. Lettin’ the little wife carry on though, if she wants to teach our kid good values and such I ain’t gonna stop her. Although I say you find better morals outside the church than inside.”

At least he had the decency to look for Father Martin before he finished that sentence, but once he was done he stared at Waylon, clearly wanting him to question it.

“You mean the cult?”

“Yeah,” Frank said darkly, eyes fixed on Waylon’s face. “What’s the body count now? Sixteen? All in the name of some bloodthirsty god.” He shook his head. “Not even the natural order of things; Parents shouldn’t have to bury their kids.”

“Who do you think are behind it?”

Frank shrugged and looked at the other people present. “Who knows. I agree with the wife though, the killer is probably here right now. Lemme tell you something, I’m not lettin’ my kid out alone anymore.”

Waylon leaned in, and whispered conspiratory. “Who would you bet your money on?”

“Personally?” Frank shot him a glance. “I’d bet my money on Gluskin.”

Waylon paled and glanced up at Eddie who was once again swarmed with children. He was actually laughing now, his face transformed completely.

“Don’t let that smile fool you, guy’s got a dark past,” Frank whispered back, noticing the look Waylon gave Eddie. “Can’t blame him, not after what his dad did, but still. I don’t trust him.”

“His dad?”

Frank gave him a strangely triumphant look, like he had waited for that question all along.

“No one told ya?" He paused and eyed Waylon. "Gluskin was raped, kid. By his old man. Until Gluskin finally cracked and killed the son of a bitch.”

“He was- He killed his father?” Waylon’s eyes snapped to Frank’s, who in turn was looking at Gluskin with narrowed eyes. Waylon’s stomach was doing strange drops and loops, nausea making him push the plate of food away. Eddie, _his_ Eddie, had been- Waylon swallowed thickly.

“More than killed him. Damn near hacked the guy to pieces. Cops couldn’t even find the guys di-” Frank cut himself off sharply. “Anyway. You ever read the statistics on abusers continuing the ‘cycle of abuse’, or whatever the quacks wanna call it?”

“I thought the vast majority of those who got abused do not become abusers themselves?”

“Sure, of course, but the reverse is also true; Most abusers were abused.”

Waylon studied Eddie’s face again, relaxed and happy with the children surrounding him. He wished he could say the idea was ludicrous, but he’d witnessed, and felt, Eddie’s anger personally.

“Father Martin seems to think-” Waylon started, and Frank cut him off with a harsh laugh.

“Father Martin’s a fool.” Frank glanced around him again, no doubt looking for prying ears. “Old man would trust anyone. Did Gluskin ever tell you about Dr. Trager?”

“No?”

“Dr. Trager was welcomed into the church just like Gluskin. Until he accidentally chopped off some fingers, and pof!” Frank extended his fingers for effect. “Off to the loonie bin.”

“So what you’re saying is that the church has a habit of including, uh, troubled individuals?”

“Exactly.” Frank leaned back and there was something calculating in the way he regarded Waylon. “Makes me wonder about you, kid,” he finally said. “What’s your story?”

Luckily, Waylon didn’t have to answer that question, because Eddie was suddenly towering over him, face grave.

“Speak of the devil,” Frank chuckled, and ignored the look Eddie shot him.

“Can I talk to you a moment, Waylon?” Eddie finally said, his tone pleasant, though Waylon could detect the tension beneath them. Apparently so could Frank, because he whistled and grimaced.

“Good luck, choir boy,” he shot after them, and Eddie sent him a sour look over his shoulder.

“Hey, Eddie,” Waylon breathed, almost flushing at the tone of his own voice.

“You shouldn’t be talking to that man,” Eddie whispered harshly, grabbing Waylon’s arm while casting another look Frank’s way. “He’s dangerous.” Eddie’s eyes flickered down to Waylon’s face, softening in the process. “I don’t want to see you hurt, darling.”

For some reason the words sounded almost like a threat, and Waylon took a step back without meaning to.

“That’s funny. He said something along the same lines about you.”

Eddie didn’t seem surprised, not even looking Frank’s way, but he let go of Waylon’s arm.

“He likes doing that, unfortunately. I’ve tried very hard making my life better, and he-” Eddie let his voice trail off, stroking a thumb through his eyebrow. “Anyway, I wouldn’t eat anything he offers you.”

Waylon stared up at Eddie with confusion, before Eddie clarified. “I just don’t trust his… _Routines_. Let’s leave it at that.”

Waylon looked over at the barbecue, at the children and their parents digging into the meal with delight. He guessed that explained Eddie’s lack of appetite.

“Shouldn’t you be warning them?” Waylon pictured all of them sick with salmonella before the evening was over, and he almost felt his stomach lurching at the thought.

Eddie laughed then, a short, humourless thing, but a laugh nonetheless. “Think they’d listen to me? Hardly.”

They fell silent, Eddie with whatever was on his mind, and Waylon with the new information Frank had given him. Waylon wanted to touch Eddie, comfort him, tell him things would be okay, but he knew it would be a bad idea to do so. So he stayed silent and unmoving, looking up at Eddie’s face instead.

“Anyway, darling, I was wondering if you could lend me a hand later at the shop?” The tense expression on Eddie’s face melted away, and he gave Waylon a small smile.

“Of course, what do you need?”

“You’ll see,” Gluskin murmured, his voice dropping in pitch again, and a slight shiver went down Waylon’s back. He kept his eyes on Waylon’s face, his gaze smouldering, and Waylon was just about to break his own rule about not touching Eddie in public before a large group of children intercepted him, begging Eddie to tell them a story. Eddie smiled and allowed them to pull him away, but not before sending a smirk Waylon’s way.

Waylon stood there for a moment, feeling lost, before eventually returning to his seat, nibbling on the corner of one of the cobs with his eyes roaming the people around him. He didn’t doubt that there was a killer present, he just hoped Eddie wasn’t the one.  
  


* * *

  
“Did you get anything?” Waylon asked, knowing Miles had, judging by the disturbingly growing amount of paper stapled to the wall and litter covering the floor. If he didn’t know any better he’d say Miles was making a nest.

“Oh, Way, you have no idea, man.” Miles didn’t even look up at him as he spoke, completely engrossed in the papers on his lap. “That Trager guy the diner person talked about? Another link to Murkoff.”

“He worked at the same asylum?” Waylon carefully peeled the listening decide off with a slight flinch, before putting it on Miles’ desk.

“Head of Business Development, whatever that means, yeah, until he became a patient instead.” Miles flicked a sheet of paper Waylon’s way, still not looking at him. Waylon distantly wondered if he’d even notice if Waylon decided to take all his clothes off and do jumping jacks. He shrugged and picked up the paper, which had a photograph pinned to the corner.

The picture showed a man in dire need of a meal. He was sinewy, but not in a healthy way, no, this guy looked like he hadn’t eaten in a long time, while not losing an inch of muscle mass.

“He looks-” Waylon didn’t know how to end the sentence, so he let it hang there instead.

“Crazy?” Miles offered, and looking down at the man, long grey hair and cracked goggles, Waylon wasn’t sure he disagreed.

“How did you have time to hunt down pictures?” Waylon wasn’t certain if he was impressed or terrified.

“Already had them. Just didn’t know how it all connected. And that’s the crazy thing, Way, it’s all fucking connected.” His eyes shone like he had a fever and he tugged his hair into awkward angles. “There’s too many freakin’ marbles, man, it’s like playing Chinese checkers or some shit.” He got a paper cup that looked more grey than white, took a sip and grimaced.

“What about Eddie?” Waylon licked his lips. “What that Frank said? True or false?”

For the first time Miles looked up at him, and he looked almost apologetic. “I wish I could say it wasn’t. I’ll spare you the details, but Eddie’s dad and uncle…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

“How could you not tell me he killed someone? Even if it was-” Waylon grimaced. “Justified in some ways?”

“I didn’t know,” Miles admitted. “You saw the black lines on his document, right? Shit’s censored. Had to access some pretty classified-” He cut himself off again.

“God,” Waylon sighed and sank down in a chair.

“I have a feeling God has very little to do with any of this,” Miles helpfully supplemented. “Anyway, I gotta meet an informant in-” he paused and peered down at a scrap of paper. “Manitoba? Isn’t that in Canada?”

Waylon snatched the piece of paper and glanced at it. “It says Montclair, and you’ve even written Denver in parenthesis.”

“I really gotta do something about my handwriting,” Miles sighed and tousled his hair some more. “Anyway, I’m relieved. I’ll be back in a few hours then, and not a few days.”

Waylon hated to admit it, but he was a little relieved as well.  
  


* * *

  
His palms were sweaty when he knocked on Eddie’s door a few hours later.

Leadville had gone dark around him, the streets empty and the houses void of life. Even Eddie’s shop had the heavy wooden blinds covering the lights Waylon knew were within, and for a few moments Waylon felt utterly alone.

Just as a sense of melancholy was about to swallow Waylon completely, Eddie opened the door with a cheerful ring of the bell, and light flooded over Waylon’s face. He felt like being greeted by a saviour, and he blinked against the sudden light.

“Darling!” Eddie exclaimed and grasped Waylon’s hand. “I’m so happy you made it.”

“Of course,” Waylon smiled up at Eddie, and allowed himself to be pulled into the shop where Eddie closed and locked the door behind them. “So what do you need help with?”

Waylon had already started walking towards the staircase up to Eddie’s apartment, but Eddie circled his hands around Waylon’s waist and steered him into the mirrored room Waylon had hid in earlier that week instead.

“I need a live model,” Eddie explained. “A mannequin is all well and good, but nothing beats a breathing body for movement and life. You’ll be perfect, darling”

The mirrored room looked different than it had in complete darkness, the lights dimmed and placed strategically for a soft glow. It undoubtedly left all the brides-to-be looking perfect.

“Actually,” Waylon started. “I was wondering if I could ask you something as well?”

Eddie either didn’t hear him, or chose not to acknowledge it.

“You’ll have to take your clothes off,” Eddie said, and Waylon was struck again by the difference between this Eddie and the angry, demanding Eddie who had commanded him to undress. The result was the same though. Waylon quietly unbuttoned his shirt with shaking hands.

Eddie didn’t even watch him as he did, his back demurely turned while he moved his hands through fabric that rustled beneath his fingertips.

“Where, uh-” Waylon started, and he covered himself while waiting for Eddie to answer. He felt naked in more ways than one, and he secretly wished that they’d had a cup of coffee or something first. It felt undeniably awkward like this.

“I need you to stand on the platform there,” Eddie said over his shoulder, while gathering white fabric in his arms.

Waylon dutifully obeyed, stepping up on the raised part in from of the mirrors, watching himself from eight different angles. He was still a little skinnier than what he was used to, weight he’d lost after Lisa and the kids that he didn’t seem able to gain back. Still, the long jogs he’d forced himself into doing had paid off, leaving him strong. Not as strong as Eddie, admittedly, but there was definition in his arms and stomach that hadn’t been there a few years ago.

“All of it,” Eddie chided softly when he finally turned around, looking at Waylon’s boxer shorts with disdain.

Waylon hooked his thumbs in his underwear, and paused for just a second before he pulled it down. Eddie watched him intently while doing so, eyes dark and hooded.

“Now, close your eyes, darling,” Eddie whispered, and Waylon obeyed yet again.

It was strange, keeping them closed. He was suddenly able to hear a lot better, that strange whispering quality of the fabric Eddie carried, Eddie’s calm breathing, and, if he concentrated, the beating of his own heart. His eyes kept fighting his resolve to keep them closed, the lights suddenly way too bright against his eyelids. He kept them closed though, even when he felt the heat of Eddie’s body close to his own.

“Arms up and to the side, please,” Eddie murmured, and wrapped silky fabric around his midsection when Waylon did as he said.

It felt cool against his skin, and Eddie hummed as he started pinning the fabric close to Waylon’s waist.

“Now, don’t move, or you might risk hurting yourself on the pins,” Eddie warned, while pulling the fabric taut with both hands, smoothing it over the gentle curve of Waylon’s spine. “Beautiful,” he said under his breath, making Waylon flush a little.

The cool fabric added to the heat of Eddie’s hands, his touches scorching hot as they moved across Waylon’s chest and down his stomach.

“I think a panel here,” Eddie mumbled to himself, making two lines with his fingers down the middle of Waylon’s stomach, making Waylon jolt under his touch.

Eddie pulled away for a moment, returning with even more rustling fabric that he fastened around Waylon’s hips. This time Waylon had to scrunch his face up in confusion before he had a chance to hide it. Eddie had definitely just put a skirt on him. It wasn’t silky like the top part, but somehow soft and rough all at the same time.

Eddie moved his hands under the layers of fabric and curved them over Waylon’s hips. “You look beautiful like this, darling,” he whispered reverently.

“Can I look?”

“Not yet.” Eddie moved away again, returning with more fabric that he started pinning and tucking as he sculpted it to Waylon’s body.

Even without the tell-tale feeling of a skirt around his legs, he could still tell that what Eddie was putting him into was meant for a woman, the neckline scooping down to his chest, leaving his shoulders bare.

Eddie put his hand on Waylon’s waist, trailing it slowly down towards his hip. “You want to see how beautiful you are?”

Waylon doubted that he looked beautiful at all, but he still nodded before opening them.

He wasn’t sure if the sight of himself in a wedding dress was embarrassing or hilarious, but he managed to keep himself from laughing, if only for Eddie’s sake. Eddie was perched between his legs, face tilted up to Waylon’s with a look of total adoration.

“The dress is beautiful,” Waylon said slowly, realizing he meant it. Because despite the unflattering, undoubtedly male, angles of the body it was pinned to, the dress itself was gorgeous, lending him curves he didn’t have. He tried to twist his body a little so he could get a better view of the back, but the sudden pinch of needles that threatened to break skin had him turn back in position.

“I told you to be mindful of the pins,” Eddie said, but the look on his face was anything but sorry. If anything his features had darkened again, pupils blown wide. He made no effort to start taking the dress off Waylon, instead reaching under the skirt to slide a hand up Waylon’s leg. “Such a beautiful bride,” he murmured, hitching the skirt up a little to get a better look.

“Eddie,” Waylon chuckled nervously, casting a glance towards the door.

“Don’t worry, darling, I locked the door, no one will disturb us.”

Waylon wasn’t sure if _he_ was disturbed by that fact, or excited.

Eddie chose that moment to lean forward and gently nip at Waylon’s inner thigh with his teeth, and Waylon couldn’t stop the shuddering moan from leaving his lips.

Excited, then. Waylon groaned.

“So responsive for me,” Eddie murmured against his skin, the slight vibration of it enough to make Waylon groan again. He had his hands full of fabric, which he pressed against Waylon’s hands. “Hold this up for me.”

Waylon bit his bottom lip, but did as he said, lifting the skirt up above his knees.

“Further up,” Eddie purred, nuzzling the inside of Waylon’s thigh. “You’re all wrapped up for me, darling, like a beautiful gift.”

The truth of it was that Waylon didn’t want to pull the skirt further up, because he was suddenly achingly, painfully hard, his erection pressing against the fabric in an not entirely uncomfortable way. Not that he really knew why he felt ashamed, Eddie seemed affected by the situation as well, his pants suddenly looking way too tight.

“Don’t make me discipline you,” Eddie said sharply, though his lips were still soft against Waylon’s skin. “Lift them up for me.”

Waylon obeyed this time, bunching the fine silk and tulle skirt further up, displaying his own arousal for Eddie to see.

“Beautiful,” Eddie whispered, trailing a finger along Waylon’s shaft, using his thumb to gently smear the precum over the head. “And already so wet for me.”

Waylon jerked at the motion of Eddie’s fingers, earning himself a quick jab from a few needles near his waist.

“The needles,” Waylon whined, knuckles whitening around the grip of fabric.

“Mmm, better stand still,” Eddie agreed, his breath ghosting over Waylon’s skin.

The fabric obscured most of his view of Eddie’s face, so he stared straight ahead into the mirror instead. He watched his own face, his hands lifting the skirt up, and Eddie’s broad back, his head tilted slightly as he pressed his face against the crease of Waylon’s thigh. It was obscene, but Eddie was actually breathing him in, like he was a fine wine or a flower. Waylon fidgeted, earning himself another shallow poke from a needle in his back.

Eddie trailed two fingers across the head of Waylon’s cock before bringing them up to Waylon’s face, prodding insistently on Waylon’s lips until Waylon reluctantly opened them. Eddie didn’t waste any time, rubbing his fingers on Waylon’s tongue so he could taste himself there.

Waylon started to protest, but Eddie quickly silenced it by engulfing Waylon’s cock in one long, fluid motion, and whatever words Waylon planned to say were lost in a breathy groan.

Eddie was pressing forward so eagerly that Waylon had to support himself on his wide shoulders, stumbling and hurting himself on the pins, but not really caring anymore. He sucked on Eddie’s fingers like he wanted to suck Eddie’s cock, or how he wanted Eddie to suck him, and beneath him Eddie gave a low grunt, no doubt catching his signals.

All too soon Eddie slipped his fingers from Waylon’s mouth, and Waylon whimpered at the loss of contact, before Eddie trailed his slick fingers along the seam of Waylon’s balls and further behind until he pressed slightly at Waylon’s opening.

“So tight,” Eddie murmured, and above him Waylon jerked and gasped. “Turn around, darling.”

Eddie helped him lift the heavy skirt and Waylon turned around with a flush on his face. Eddie didn’t waste any time, quickly parting Waylon’s cheeks and driving his face between them with a grunt. Waylon stiffened, mind blank for a moment from what Eddie was doing, until he felt a warm, wet tongue drag slowly over him. Waylon threw his head back and moaned.

“W-what are-H-hnhaha,” Waylon babbled, almost falling over, the only thing keeping him up-right was Eddie’s strong arms around his hips.

From his position he couldn’t really tell what Eddie was saying, just the vibration of his deep voice on the most intimate parts of his body.

And, oh boy, did Eddie go to town. His fingers were digging into Waylon’s hips, tongue circling and licking and pressing in the most delicious manner. Waylon had never felt anything like it; Never dreamt of anything like it. Yet now he was quickly losing himself to the sensations, grinding back on Eddie’s face, completely shameless, even when every movement he made had the pins nip at his skin. He could almost imagine them as teeth, all over his body. Teeth and tongue and deft fingers.

As though Eddie was reading him like an open book, he shifted slightly, bringing one hand to knead Waylon’s ass. His fingers soon found Waylon’s entrance again, and he licked around his own fingers as he pressed them against the muscle there.

The sound Waylon made deep in his throat would have made him ashamed, had he been conscious of anything outside his own little bubble of fingers and tongue.

Eddie penetrated him first with one finger, to his second knuckle, while licking around the digit. Waylon wiggled his hips in an effort to have him deeper, but Eddie alternated between pulling back or just holding Waylon so tightly that he wasn’t able to push back enough.

“Patience,” Eddie scolded darkly, his breath cool on Waylon’s heated flesh.

Waylon let out a whine, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. He didn’t want to look at himself in the mirror, worried he’d see someone he didn’t recognize looking back at him.

It felt like punishment more than anything. Eddie licked him slowly, like one would an ice cream cone. Oh, so slowly, like he had all day and didn’t mind spending all of it with his face exactly where it was. Just when Waylon was about to submit to the punishment Eddie retreated his finger only to add another on the in-stroke. There was a brief surge of uncomfortable tightness, until Waylon relaxed against him, easing Eddie’s access to his body. As a reward Eddie started licking between his fingers, the long, slow strokes of his tongue becoming shorter and faster.

“E-Eddie…!” Waylon keened, desperately, when he felt his knees go weak.

“Just a little longer, darling, just a little longer,” Eddie panted, his chest heaving against the back of Waylon’s thighs, though what he meant Waylon wasn’t sure. Right now he didn’t want it to end at all. "You're so tight, darling, like a virgin. Like you have saved yourself for me."

There was a slight movement behind Waylon and then the tell-tale sound of buttons popping open and a zipper being unzipped, and then another grunt against Waylon’s ass. Waylon dared a quick look at the mirror, seeing his own reddened face and chest, Eddie’s eyes closed in clear satisfaction at what he was doing, and- Waylon blinked and groaned at the sight of Eddie’s hand around his own rock-hard erection. The thought turned Waylon on further, pushing him closer to that edge, the thought that Eddie found Waylon’s body so erotic that he had to, no, _needed_ , to touch himself.

“God,” Eddie groaned against Waylon’s ass, and the broken sound of his voice had a sharp surge of near-painful arousal pool in Waylon’s lower abdomen.

“Yes,” Waylon gasped, pressing himself back against Eddie’s face. “Yes, please, keep going.”

“You’re so-” Eddie started, words muffled, fingers delving deeper, harder, stroking against nerve endings that had Waylon’s head and heart and groin light up like a fire. “God,” Eddie groaned again, like a prayer.

And here was the sick part; Waylon wished they were back in the church. For Eddie to say those words right there at the altar. Just the thought of it, of Eddie’s perfectly pressed dalmatic, his pious expression, all of it lost and tainted as Eddie moaned God’s name against Waylon’s ass.

Waylon felt Eddie tense up behind him, his tongue stopping for a fraction of a second before he gasped and jolted, coating the back of Waylon’s legs with warmth. Then he dove in closer with a vengeance, working his fingers and tongue vigorously.

Waylon had been skirting the edge for a while now, and the desperation of Eddie’s movements had him tense up, strange electric tingles encompassing him before he threw his head back, his cock bobbing and spurting in rhythmic jerks. Each jolt of his body had the pins dig in deeper, and it intensified every single emotion running through his body. He wasn’t sure what he said, just unfiltered nonsense bubbling through his lips, and Eddie held him firmly around the hips, keeping him on his feet.

He sagged against Eddie’s touch, chest heaving and head swimming. He allowed Eddie to pull him down on his knees, where he carefully started unpinning him, until Eddie could peel the dress off him like a cocoon. Maybe Waylon would emerge as someone different.

Maybe they both would.


	14. Chapter 14

Waylon arrived late back at the motel, and he couldn’t have slept more than a few hours, when something nagged in his subconscious. He couldn’t quite say what woke him, but his eyes blinked open slowly just the same. As he tried to focus through a sleepy haze, a face just inches away from his own became clear. It took a few moments to register, but when it did panic flared up in him like a damn traffic light, and he shrieked and scrambled up against the headboard.

“Sorry,” Miles whispered, his eyes huge like an owl’s as he peered down at Waylon. “I think I found something.”

“What the f-” Waylon’s heart was beating so hard he was feeling sick. “How long have you been here? Have you slept?”

“Had coffee,” he said instead, jiggling an empty take-away cup with one hand. “You awake?”

Waylon squinted at his phone, surprised to find it no more than three in the morning. Fuck, he hadn’t even had an hour of sleep. “Barely,” he groaned.

“Listened to the tapes, man, and that Blaire fellow, yeah, okay? Yeah. So I went ahead and followed him.”

Waylon tried to tame his hair with his fingers, pressing it flat against his head with a yawn. “And?”

“You know that asylum where Gluskin and Hope were committed?”

“Yeah?” At the mention of Eddie’s last name Waylon perked up a little -damn his feelings to hell- and Miles rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, whatever man. Anyway, Blaire is the fucking director of the place. Tied up with a big pharmaceutical place called Murkoff.” He stared at Waylon for a long moment, looking like he expected an answer. “ _Murkoff_ ,” he repeated slowly, leaning closer. “Murky! As in ‘something to hide’?”

“Oh, God, Miles, seriously?” Waylon groaned and dug his head under the pillow. “This is like Ruth and her missing dog all over again.”

“I’m telling you that dog crossed state li- No, fine whatever, just listen.” Miles climbed onto the bed and pulled out a crumpled mess of papers from his jacket. “They were previously known as MK Ultra, but after some legal shit they changed their name to the Murkoff Corporation and bam, open for business again.”

“MK Ultra…?” Waylon cocked his head. “I think you got a little cold war experimentation history in your current events.”

Miles did a double take down on his note-book, but instead of erasing, he just kept scribbling furiously. Great. He’d probably find a link to Hitler by the end of the evening.

“Anyway, what kind of ‘legal shit’?” Waylon asked, hoping to get his attention back.

Miles looked back up at him, eyes unfocused before he seemed to realize where he was.

“Experimentations,” he said breathlessly. “Most notably on the criminally insane who no one would miss or care much about. Guess they didn’t factor in a mother’s love, huh?” He pulled out a newspaper clipping with a picture of a woman with a forlorn expression on her face. “Hope’s mom. She filed a lawsuit against them, but then Hope disappeared, and well...” Miles shrugged.

“What kind of experiments?”

“No-one knows, really. It’s the perfect alibi. A bunch of killers and psychopaths claiming the doctors are making them see and do things? Who’ll buy it?”

“You?” Waylon suggested, and Miles shot him a dirty look.

“I’d think you’d be interested in this, since these complaints came from a certain deacon as well.” Miles feigned nonchalance, glancing at the paper in his hand with disinterest.

“What?” Waylon tried to snatch the paper out of Miles’ hand, but Miles was too quick.

“Gluskin called them, and I quote, ‘Fuck-pig-rapist-bastards’.”

Waylon snorted and laughed. “That doesn’t sound like Eddie at all.”

“Well, you might say it wasn’t.” Miles started flicking through his papers until he finally pulled out a photograph. “Here.”

Waylon accepted the photograph and his eyes went wide when he turned it over.

It was a mugshot of Eddie. Except it wasn’t. Maybe it used to be, maybe Miles was right. This Eddie looked feral, his face splattered with crusted blood and a big grin splitting his face in half. He looked… Waylon didn’t want to think it, but he looked deranged.

“What…?”

Miles seemed to understand, because his expression softened. “Taken right after he nearly killed one of his _dates_. Right before he was declared criminally insane and sent to Mount Massive for therapy.”

Waylon turned the photograph in his hands a few times. “It must have worked,” he whispered, looking up at Miles. “Right?”

Miles went quiet for a heartbeat too long before he shrugged with a smile. “You’d know that better than me, Way.” He gave Waylon an awkward pat on the back and didn’t say a thing when Waylon folded the photograph in four and put it in his wallet. Then he shifted and squirmed. “Do you-” He cleared his throat. “Should I not have pushed you to come here?”

“No,” Waylon said, smiling a little. “I’m glad you did.”

Miles’ smile returned, but there was something almost sad about the expression on his face as he studied Waylon. “You’re crazy, Way,” he said, shaking his head. “But we gotta start working now. No matter if Gluskin’s involved or not, you understand that?”

Waylon nodded. “I understand.”  
  


* * *

  
Miles didn't tell Waylon a whole lot about what he was doing and Waylon felt like he was just a small cog in a larger machinery; That Miles had a whole mechanical map hung somewhere with cogs and parts and wires that Waylon couldn't even conceive of.

It didn't make much difference. Waylon already felt like he was stumbling around in the dark, like he had been from day one. Miles was gonna talk to an informant later, that was all Waylon knew, and right now he wasn't sure he minded being left in the dark. He had too much to think about as it was. He checked his watch again, like he found himself obsessively doing lately. Not long until Miles left now.

During those first few days, he’d felt okay on his own, but suddenly the thought of being without Miles felt like being tossed out into a void with only a vague possibility of being able to get back out again. He didn't mind being left in the dark, but he didn't want to be left there alone.

There was a hard knock on his door, and Waylon quickly scooped up his notebook and a USB drive with images and headed for the door. Miles hadn't said he needed them, but Waylon still wanted to make sure he didn't mess things up. He opened the door carelessly, but froze before he had the chance to say something.

Because it wasn’t Miles on the other side of the door, getting ready to leave. Instead it was Eddie, like it was meant to be all along.

He had changed. Or maybe he was the same, but Waylon’s perception of him had changed. One way or another, Eddie was standing in front of him without a word, head tilted forward. He was trembling, Waylon realized, his broad shoulders shaking, and Waylon was immediately transported back to the other night when Waylon had been the one trembling on Eddie’s doorstep.

“Eddie?” Waylon halfway hid behind the door, not wanting to admit to himself that he was frightened.

Eddie didn’t answer, but he raised his gaze and focused on Waylon, although it was like he wasn’t really there at all. His eyes were glassy and empty.

“Come on,” Eddie murmured, extending his hand for Waylon to take. “Let’s go.”

Now, Eddie had promised Waylon he’d think about leaving Leadville, but Waylon had been too worried about the possibility that Eddie would decline that he hadn’t really conceived of the possibility of him saying yes.

“Really?” Waylon let go of the door, the corners of his mouth raising without him even realizing. “You mean it?”

“Let’s go,” Eddie repeated, and this time Waylon put his hand in Eddie’s and allowed him to pull him out into the parking lot.

Eddie didn’t say anything else, just pulled Waylon across the parking lot to an old pickup truck parked near the entrance. Eddie opened the passenger door and helped Waylon into the seat before circling the car and getting in behind the wheel.

The engine roared to life, and Eddie carefully maneuvered the car out and into the road.

“So we’re really leaving?” Waylon asked, trying to mask the grin that had stretched across his face.

“There’s really just one solution for this,” Eddie finally whispered, voice strangled.

“I just didn’t think-” Waylon cut himself off, rubbing his neck and smiling down at his free hand. “I thought you’d stay here.”

He looked over at Eddie, but wasn’t able to read the expression on his face, and he looked out the window instead, at the buildings slowly giving way to nature as they drove out of the city.

At first he couldn’t put his finger on why there was a cold chill going down his back, or why his scalp tightened uncomfortably. Then reality hit him and he broke out in a cold sweat.

“This,” Waylon’s voice broke, a sudden panic flaring in his chest for the second time that day. “This isn’t the road to Denver.”

A quick glance behind him confirmed the suspicion. There were no bags in Eddie’s car, no proof of him ever wanting to leave this place.

“Eddie,” Waylon pleaded. “Where are you taking me?”

“I’ve been taught,” Eddie started. “That through the application of water, a baptism, a believer is cleansed from sins and begins a new life.” He glanced over at Waylon, his face grave. “You said you wanted us to escape, but there’s no escape from God, Waylon. I think this is the only solution.”

“And if it isn’t?” Waylon said in a breath. “What if I go through with whatever this is and things stay the same?”

Eddie tightened his hold on the steering wheel and bared his teeth. “It’s like this because we aren’t both cleansed. It will work, it _has_ to work.” There was something so desperate in his voice that Waylon felt a stab of sadness and guilt in his abdomen.

“I should never have come here,” Waylon muttered and stared stiffly out the window at the landscape moving past them.

“Be happy you did,” Eddie turned into a smaller road and drove a few yards before swerving off and driving along the bank of a large body of water. “Maybe you were called here for me to save your eternal soul.”

Once they were far enough away from the road Eddie drove to a stop and shut the engine off. Then he very slowly turned to Waylon. “Get out and get undressed.”

“W-What?” Waylon stammered, unable to move a single muscle.

Eddie gave him a long, indecipherable stare before unfastening his seat-belt and opening the door. He circled the truck like he had before, though this time there was almost something sluggish about his movements.

It didn’t last long. Soon he was by the passenger door and he opened it and dragged Waylon out with a grunt.

“Get undressed.”

Waylon did as he was told -how could he not?- and folded his clothes on the passenger seat. He covered himself as he turned around and took in the area Eddie had brought him to.

The water stretched out in every direction, large and clear like a mirror, mountains looming above it and even in the dying light their reflections in the water were perfectly clear. The summer evening felt balmy against Waylon’s skin, the clouds above them dyed in bright orange and soft pinks.

“It’s beautiful,” Waylon finally gasped, and Eddie gave a short little nod before he grasped Waylon’s wrist and started pulling him down to the water bank.

“Through the Holy Spirit, baptism is a bath that purifies, justifies, and sanctifies,” Eddie declared in a loud voice, and let go of Waylon's wrists when he started rolling his own sleeves up past his elbows. “This water symbolizes baptism that now saves you as well, not the removal of dirt from the body, but the pledge of a clear conscience toward God. It saves you by the resurrection of Jesus Christ.”

Then he took his shoes off, and grabbed Waylon's wrists and started pulling him along into the shallow water.

"Have you repented for your sin and accepted Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?"

“I-” Waylon shuddered against the cool water on his skin, despite the warm wind.

“Say ‘I do’,” Eddie instructed, stopping only once the water reached his upper thighs.

“I-I do,” Waylon whispered, closing his eyes and thinking back at Lisa on their wedding day. “I do.”

Eddie looked pleased, and he held on to Waylon’s elbow before moving behind him.

“Cover your nose with your hand and hold your wrist with the other.”

As he spoke Waylon could almost feel him get less and less agitated, sounding almost serene once Waylon followed his directions. Then he placed one hand on Waylon’s naked lower back, the other firmly on his forearm before slowly moving backwards into the water.

There was a lot of things Waylon ought to feel in that moment. Terrified, maybe, saddened by Eddie’s disturbed sense of morals, but Waylon felt completely safe in Eddie’s arms, willfully allowing Eddie to immerse him completely in the cool and crisp mountain water. The world disappeared around him, the water making it impossible to see or hear anything clearly and in that moment Waylon felt almost utterly free.

He was floating, flying, soaring through the skies. Unstoppable and free. Eddie supported him gently, but firmly, never once letting go of him. He had been worried that Miles leaving would drop him in a void, but this wasn’t a void at all. This was something beautiful.

After what felt like hours, but truthfully probably lasted only a few seconds, Gluskin lifted him back up and Waylon broke the surface of the water with a gasp.

"I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost,” Eddie said quietly, eyes mild as he studied Waylon’s face. Then he helped Waylon find his footing, but didn’t let go of his back.

“By baptism all sins are forgiven, original sin and all personal sins, as well as all punishment for sin. In those who have been reborn nothing remains that would impede their entry into the Kingdom of God, neither Adam's sin, nor personal sin, nor the consequences of sin, the gravest of which is separation from God,” Eddie whispered, and he leaned closer to Waylon, his lips almost brushing the top of his head. “And while there is still sin left for us to wrestle with, it cannot harm those who do not consent but manfully resist it by the grace of Jesus Christ.”

Waylon couldn’t follow along with his words, but nodded his head while clinging to Eddie’s arm.

“So now my sins and transgressions are forgiven?” Waylon leaned back against the comforting heat of Eddie’s body. He wasn’t sure why he even cared. Maybe it was because Eddie did.

“Everything, darling, you’re completely new, and washed as white as snow.”

Waylon tilted his head back, feeling the cool water raise goose-flesh on his skin. He hadn’t really had a clear idea about how he’d feel being baptized, and he couldn’t really say he’d had a revelation down there in the water, but he felt- He felt what Eddie said might be the truth; That this was a fresh beginning of sorts, one way or another. He had felt that a lot lately, but none as clear as this moment.

Eddie let go of his hand and started walking towards the banks, his wet clothes clinging to the long, powerful lines of his body, and Waylon couldn’t help but stare at him while he tried to follow.

“I have a blanket in the car,” Eddie said once he reached the shore, turning his head Waylon’s way before freezing completely in his tracks.

Waylon nodded, his teeth clacking together when he took the first experimental step onto the ground. The soft, warm soil shaped itself after his foot, sticking to his skin like it was trying to suck him in. At the moment he felt so at peace with himself and nature that he could almost imagine that’s how it would end for him. He smiled, but his smile faded once he looked at Eddie, whose face had gone ashen.

“What’s wrong?”

“I thought-” Eddie started, and his voice seemed close to breaking. “I thought this would fix us.”

Waylon was about to ask if it hadn’t, when he became aware of the look Eddie was sending him. His face was twisted in anger and desperation, but his eyes were burning with want.

“I prayed for God to fix me, or at the very least fix _you_ , so He could keep you away from me.” Eddie took a few steps forward and caressed Waylon’s arm, his gaze as intense as his voice was soft.

“Maybe this is his way of saying we don’t need fixed?” Waylon suggested, closing the distance between them completely, pressing his naked body against Eddie’s.

“Don’t you remember what I told you? We have to obey all of God’s laws,” Eddie slurred, his grip tightening around Waylon’s arm. “Or have you forgotten? Chosen to forgotten?” He forced Waylon away from him, holding him at arm’s length. “You’re clean and new now, yet you want me to defile you?”

“I just-”

“You just want to dig me down deeper with you?” Eddie finished for him.

“It’s not like that, I-” Waylon broke free from Eddie’s grip and came close enough to put his hands on Eddie’s face. “I care about you.”

“Whore!” Eddie growled, yanking Waylon’s hands away.

The force of it had Waylon trip and fall backwards, landing in soft mud, and he stared up at Eddie with wide, terrified eyes.

Waylon had found the softness of the sunset romantic earlier, while now it was just terrifying, shadows obscuring Eddie’s face, making him look like a stranger. Waylon ignored the little voice in the back of his mind that helplessly supplied the fact that Eddie _was_ a stranger.

Eddie’s face was half-covered in darkness, but it quickly came back into view once he crouched down into the mud with him.

“If this is the day we fall from grace, then let us do it completely.” And with those words Eddie plunged forward, claiming Waylon’s mouth with his own.

Despite the harshness of his words, and the angry manner in which he pressed his hands against Waylon’s flesh, his mouth was sweet as he groaned against Waylon’s lips. He was desperate, insatiable, pupils blown up to large, inky pools, while his gaze seemed entirely unfocused.

Waylon whined against his lips, pressing himself closer, longing to feel and taste and be taken. He had waited so long to be kissed by Eddie, and now that he was, he just needed more.

Eddie pulled away, only to plunge back down against Waylon’s neck where he sank his teeth into Waylon’s sensitive skin, before licking and sucking his way down Waylon’s body.

“Need you,” Eddie growled. “Need to fill you up.”

“Yes, God, yes,” Waylon whimpered, his breath hitching when Eddie’s mouth found Waylon’s aching cock.

Fuck, Eddie seemed desperate to fill himself completely with Waylon. He was licking and sucking everything, even Waylon’s fingers when Waylon tried to put them on Eddie’s face.

When Eddie pulled away it was to tug furiously on his own shirt, discarding it carelessly, before leaning back down. His skin was feverishly warm beneath Waylon’s fingers, and he felt the power and raw strength when Eddie shifted and pressed himself closer. Eddie’s forearms were covered in mud as well now, and Waylon pressed his face against them, breathing in the fresh pungency of wet earth.

“Why-” Eddie groaned. “Why are you making me do this?”

He leaned back on his heels, using his hands to press Waylon’s thighs back, exposing him completely. Waylon groaned at his own display, and Eddie shot him a heated glare.

“Such a willing whore,” Eddie rasped, using his anchorage on Waylon’s hips to tug him closer.

Waylon felt more like prey than a whore, pinned down and exposed like this, just waiting for a killing blow that never came. Though he certainly moaned like a whore when Eddie’s erection brushed against his own.

He felt completely helpless, completely at the mercy of someone else, and that thought terrified him, yet gave him a rush like nothing else. Eddie could kill him here and leave him bleeding out in the mud like an animal, and Waylon wouldn’t be able to stop it. Eddie could claim and mar and _take_ , and Waylon would be completely powerless to resist.

The water had been cold, the wind mild, but the mud beneath then felt scorching hot, like fiery embers against Waylon’s skin. Maybe Eddie was right and they’d both burn for this.

“Fuck me,” Waylon panted into the air.

Eddie chuckled, breath hot against Waylon’s skin. “Oh, don’t you worry, darling, I’m gonna fuck you into the filth like the whore you are.” Then he stuck his fingers into Waylon’s mouth and Waylon started licking and sucking his fingers without missing a beat. “Yeah,” Eddie growled. “There you go.”

Waylon licked the invading digits, giving a muffled groan when Eddie pressed his fingers against Waylon’s tongue. The taste was contradictory; clean skin and a a gritty, earthy taste that Waylon recognized as mud.

Eddie pulled his hand away and undid his pants. The look he sent Waylon was dark and accusing, although that fire was burning brighter than ever. He didn’t bother taking his pants off all the way, just enough to pull his cock out and he gave himself a few strokes with the now slick hand before he lined himself up and pressed insistently against him. At the pressure Waylon heard himself panting for breath in a way that almost made him feel ashamed.

They locked eyes, then, Eddie’s that same intense burn, Waylon’s wide and nervous. Then his heart skipped as Eddie breached him slowly, and Waylon let out a long keening sound, his hands trying, and failing, to grasp Eddie’s upper arms.

“Eddie,” Waylon said his name like a prayer, while Eddie said Waylon’s like a curse.

The pain of Eddie sinking to the hilt in him was excruciating, his nerve endings burning and misfiring; but at that moment he swore the pain was good. Eddie was parting him, splitting him open, claiming him in the most intimate of ways.

Eddie’s jaw had been clenched, but once fully sheathed in Waylon his mouth fell open in a groan, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment before opening them again.

“Why can’t you be someone else,” Eddie growled, his voice not quite steady. “Why can’t you be a woman I could marry.” They weren’t posed as questions, so Waylon didn’t answer. He wouldn’t know what to say anyway. “I wish you’d have my babies, like God demands.”

Eddie almost pulled out all the way before snapping his hips back against him, and Waylon squirmed and moaned.

“Homosexual acts are contrary to the natural law. They close the sexual act to the gift of life,” Eddie groaned and bared down harder. “Under no circumstances can they be approved.”

“Then why are you fucking me?” Waylon gasped, pushing Eddie just a little further. “You made a vow to follow God, so why are you down in the mud with me?”

“You ungrateful slut,” Eddie hissed, putting his forearm across Waylon’s neck before leaning against him, restricting his air supply. “How dare you.”

Waylon felt his shoulders sink further into the mud. Eddie was right, he really was fucking him into the soil and the filth. Maybe he had been right about Waylon dragging him down with him as well.

He put his hands on Eddie’s chest and let them slip down over his nipples and across his muscular abdomen, leaving streaks of darkened mud across pale skin. He liked that, he liked sullying the deacon, tainting him.

Eddie growled and caught Waylon’s mouth in a hungry kiss, the previous sweetness of his mouth transformed into something hard and angry. Waylon moaned and arched into the kiss, folding his arms across Eddie’s broad back so he could pull him down.

For once Eddie complied, allowing Waylon to mold his chest to his, skin to heated skin.

Waylon panted desperately under the heavy weight on him, Eddie’s breath against his skin and his commanding thrusts. He was at his complete mercy.

Eddie hooked Waylon’s knee over his forearm so he could thrust into him even deeper, the position making Waylon’s erection rub between their bodies. Waylon gasped at the friction and the world could have crumbled around them and he would not have noticed.

Because when Eddie angled his hips just right, the world dissolved into a shower of sparks. The pain was mind numbing, completely devouring and insatiable.

“The acts of the flesh are obvious: sexual immorality, impurity and debauchery-” Eddie growled against Waylon’s neck, holding him like a vice, to the point where Waylon couldn’t have moved even if he had wanted to.

“Yes,” Waylon said in a broken groan.

The moon had risen up behind them and it shone like a halo behind Eddie’s head. Not that bright, warm yellow across Christ's face and in the idols at the church, but a cool blue that made Eddie seem as hard and unattainable as marble.

“Idolatry and witchcraft; hatred, discord, jealousy, fits of rage-” Eddie sneered, the moon spiking out behind his head.

 _Maybe he really is connected to the heavens_ , Waylon thought, as Eddie’s thrusts grew harder, each shattering snap of his hips pushing them deeper into the mud. _Maybe we'll both disappear completely._

“Selfish ambition, dissensions, factions and envy-” God, he was growling each word like a curse, like they tasted foul in his mouth, his fingers digging into Waylon’s skin. “Drunkenness, orgies, and the like,” he continued, pausing only to lick Waylon’s jaw. “I warn you, as I did before, that those who live like this will not inherit the kingdom of God.”

“God, yes,” Waylon moaned, rolling his hips against Eddie’s for more friction. For Eddie to take him deeper, harder, just more, more, _more_.

“That’s right, move your hips just like that, darling,” Eddie grunted, placing a few kisses to Waylon’s mouth. “You feel so good like that.”

Waylon was feeling light headed with desire, everything tuned out except Eddie and the soft and warm soil underneath him that almost felt like an extension of Eddie’s body. He could almost imagine getting fucked by more than one, since Eddie seemed to pluck at his nerve endings like a guitar, hitting each and every sweet spot on Waylon’s body until his heart was thrumming, his body swimming, and his mind blank and free.

“As soon as I saw you, darling, I knew. I knew you could fill that emptiness inside me,” Eddie murmured. “Just like I could fill your own emptiness.” He pressed his pelvis against Waylon’s ass for emphasis. “You filthy slut.”

They were both filthy, their bodies streaks of skin and soil, and Waylon smiled against Eddie’s lips. He liked the thought of that, the thought that Eddie wanted him so much he would even kneel in the dirt to have him.

The thought made something inside him shift and grow, a sensation like all of him in gathered near his groin; a hot, pulsing fire threatening to ignite them both. Waylon lost all sense of shame, of dignity, of regret, and gasped against Eddie’s mouth with words that made no sense anymore.

Eddie smirked at the change in him, knowing what it meant, and he kept his thrusts measured and calculated, pressing hard against him for every inward stroke.

"Whoever conceals their sins does not prosper, but the one who confesses and renounces them finds mercy," Eddie pressed himself against the dampness of Waylon's neck. "Will you confess after this, darling? Will you tell them what we did?"

Waylon had his teeth so firmly embedded in his lower lip he couldn’t answer, but he offered a strained nod, barely able to see Eddie through eyelids that refused to open all the way.

Any other day Waylon would describe his orgasms as explosions, as fireworks and brightly coloured lights. This time though, oh, this time it was like a fire. That same pulsing fire like before, but now it was licking his limbs and face, setting his whole body on fire. He came with a cry as his release pulsed out between their bodies, feeling like if he was back in the water, he’d open his mouth and welcome it.

“Put to death, therefore, whatever belongs to your earthly nature,” Eddie whispered, staring down at Waylon with a look that made him certain that his fire really did ignite Eddie's as well. “Sexual immorality, impurity, lust, evil desires and greed, which is idolatry.”

Eddie was close, Waylon knew, because he could see him fighting to last longer. Eddie pinched his eyes shut as he struggled for control, or maybe out of shame. He didn't slow down or ease his pace though, thrusts hard and forceful and _angry_.

“Because of these,” he panted, increasing his pace until Waylon squirmed beneath him. “The wrath of God is coming!” He finally cried out, his hips jerking until he finally stilled. Eddie’s face became slack and blank, and he stared down at Waylon’s flushed face with narrowed, slow-blinking eyes.

“What did you…” Eddie’s voice trailed off and he shut his eyes tightly.

“Eddie,” Waylon started, putting his hands on Eddie’s face, and this time Eddie allowed himself to sink down on top of him. They laid like that for a moment, their heaving breaths stilling, their limbs slotting comfortably together like they had done this a million times before.

Waylon could feel Eddie’s heart pounding against his own, not stilling like Eddie’s breath, but hammering hard. Waylon clutched him fervently, felt his strong and powerful body turn yielding under his fingertips. He didn’t realize right away that Eddie was mumbling something against his skin, a prayer, maybe, or his innermost thoughts.

“I am laid low in the dust,” he said quietly, and Waylon didn’t say anything, just threaded his fingers through Eddie’s hair, enjoying the weight of him and the moon above their heads. It seemed closer to them now, closer to Waylon. No longer unattainable.

Waylon could feel Eddie’s lips move against his skin, before Eddie supported himself on his elbows, looking down at Waylon with strange, soft eyes.

“I was the one who gave up all hope. And then God sends you, to give it all back to me, and yet I can’t obey his law if it means I can’t have you,” Eddie whispered, pushing a lock of damp hair out of Waylon’s eyes, and Waylon realized for the first time that there were tears on Eddie’s cheeks and lashes. “I’ve prayed for the strength, but I do not possess it.”

Waylon didn’t know how to respond. How to act. So he did the only thing he felt was right to do and pressed his lips to Eddie’s in a soft kiss that held none of the previous desperation.

“No matter what you’ve done, Eddie, no matter what you’ve said to me,” Waylon mumbled, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m glad I came here. I’m glad I met you.”

“You say that now,” Eddie said, his voice surprisingly steady. “But if you really knew me I doubt you’d be so willing to say the same.”

 _But I do know_ , Waylon wanted to say, but didn’t. He couldn’t. So instead he cupped Eddie’s face, trailing his cheek with his thumb.

“I feel like my existence is like the sun, always going in circles, watching baptisms and funerals and-” Eddie cut himself off brusquely.

“Is it moving forward now?” Waylon asked softly, and Eddie’s eyes snapped to his.

“In many ways I’m right back where I started,” Eddie whispered ruefully, and his lips tilted in a soft smile. “I can’t decide if it’s like a curse or a dream, being with you.”

“I hope it’s the latter.” Waylon pressed his face up to Eddie’s again, brushing his lips against his, and when he pulled away, Eddie was smiling.  
  


* * *

  
They drove home in near silence, but there was no awkwardness there to accompany it, just an old song playing on the radio, the road stretching out in front of them and their fingers twined gently together.

Waylon had been lucky enough to have put his clothes away before diving into the mud, while Eddie looked like he had been to war. Waylon had to smile when he looked over at him. They had tried to wash the worst off in the lake, but under the street lights that illuminated their faces in regular intervals, it was clear that they hadn’t been entirely successful.

Waylon felt- He almost felt free. All the ache and the stress in his bones had turned soft and relaxed, and his mind was swept clean of sadness. He _felt_ , but this time he didn’t feel all the things that had threaten to break him in the past.

No, at the moment he felt like laying on top of the truck as it drove through the night, feeling completely detached from everything else. He tightened his hold on Eddie’s hand and glanced shyly over at him. He felt like he was a teenager again, during those first few months of dating Lisa, when things were new and exciting and terrifying.

Eddie noticed him looking and cast a soft glance his way before driving into the parking lot of Waylon’s motel.

Eddie was as contradicting and confusing as the taste of his fingers earlier, but it had gone from confusing and frightening to something that might be even more terrifying in the light of day. Waylon realized that he couldn’t deny what he felt for Eddie any longer.

They should have kissed, wanted to kiss, but didn’t, their fingers squeezing around each other instead. Waylon opened the car door like that, and their fingers were connected until the distance made it impossible. Their fingers slipped from each other, and Waylon tried to ignore the slight hollow in his chest at the action. There were no need for words, so Waylon just looked at him for a moment before smiling, and Eddie smiled back. Then he put his car into drive, sent a final, lingering look Waylon’s way, before driving off.

Waylon stood in silence in the deserted parking lot, watching the truck leave. He stood there even after it had gone out of view, his whole world spinning.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank you all for your kind words and support! I feel very welcomed here, and it means a lot to me. Also a special thanks to [Infestation](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Infestation/pseuds/Infestation) for providing the inspiration for the leaded conversation between Waylon and Miles.

* * *

  
He was in so deep. Deeper than he ever thought possible.

Waylon sat on the motel bed with his hands in his lap and a smile on his face. Every now and then he’d trail his lips with trembling fingers, like he had done before. This time, though, his lips really were bruised from kissing, and he closed his eyes. His whole body ached, but God, it was good. He ached for Eddie and he regretted letting him drive away.

The baptism hadn’t been a revelation in itself, but being pulled down into the water and the soil had. Kissing Eddie had changed something in him. He might not have found God in the water, but he had almost found him in Eddie’s touch.

But still. His intentions kept getting muddled. He hadn’t come here to find Eddie or to find God. He’d come here to help Miles. Help the young people abused and twisted by a bloodthirsty cult, not explore his own sexuality. It was so easy to let go though, with Eddie. Just surrender into his arms and not think about the what and the who and the why.

With a sigh he rubbed over his face, tugging his unruly hair back from his eyes. He was meeting Miles in less than half an hour, and he had yet to rid his face of his post-orgasmic blush. It was mortifying, really.

He sighed again, with a smile this time, and headed for the bathroom so he could at least splash some cool water over his face. He had taken a shower to rid himself of any remnants of mud as soon as he came back, but his face was still flushed. He very actively avoided looking at himself in the mirror, almost afraid of the idea of finding himself looking happy, so he just pooled cool water in the palms of his hands before running them over his face. Maybe it would have been better to tell Miles the truth, or what Miles hadn’t already gathered. It was a pain, really, how Miles knew everything even before Waylon did himself.

He snickered into the towel as he dried himself off, his quiet musing interrupted by a knock on the door. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time Miles was early. Or late, really. Waylon laughed again before unlocking the door.

His laugh died down immediately once the door was open. Miles looked terrible, like he hadn’t slept at all, all dark stubble and even darker circles under his eyes.

“Miles, what-”

“Come on, no time to lose,” Miles rasped, and before waiting for a reply he grabbed Waylon’s wrist and pulled him to his car, pausing only slightly to allow Waylon to lock the door behind him. “I’ll explain on our way there.”

It was a strange mirroring to the previous trip with Eddie, and Waylon hoped the similarities would end there. The thought combined with Miles’ strange behaviour had him chuckle nervously.

Miles moved like a robot as they approached the car, and Waylon had to glance at him several times, biting his tongue to keep from pestering him. Miles didn’t say a word while he opened the car door, sat down, and put his safety belt on. Miles never put on his safety belt. Which meant this had to be serious.

They drove in silence for a few minutes, until Miles pulled out of the main street and onto one of the smaller side roads.

“Gluskin’s a killer,” Miles finally said, casting a quick glance Waylon’s way as he made another turn.

“I know, we talked about that already.” Waylon sighed. It had become a habit for Miles, it seemed. Waylon would find some fragile happiness with Eddie, and Miles would be right there to tear it all down again. Waylon had almost stopped being rattled for every piece of information Miles fed him, even when he knew he probably should be.

“No, I mean, he’s a _killer_. Not just his dad, but-” Miles seemed to ponder what to say for a moment. “Remember I told you he mutilated women?”

“Yeah, but-”

“Apparently, not all made it out alive.” Miles shook his head, his jaw clenched tightly. “Jesus fucking Christ, man, I let you get close to him. He could have killed you.”

“He wouldn’t have.” Waylon said, his voice steady.

“Yeah, and I bet you the women said the same thing. Guy had an modus operandi, Way, all of them, fucking all of them, described him as a gentleman. Very attentive, blah blah, blah, and then BAM!” Miles smacked the palm of his hand on the dashboard, making Waylon flinch. “Cut into them like a turkey on thanksgiving.”

“But he got better, didn’t he?” All the heat had left Waylon’s body, and he swallowed thickly. Apparently some information still had the ability to snake its way into his chest, because he suddenly felt lightheaded.

“Yeah, sure,” Miles shrugged, deflating a little. “Was released two years ago and not a single dot or smudge on his record since then.”

Waylon chewed on the inside of his cheek while watching the landscape go past them. They were definitely heading out of the city now, in the opposite direction of the one Eddie had taken him earlier, the sparse sprinkling of one-story houses giving way to pine trees.

“That’s not the worst of it though,” Miles finally said, calmer this time, carefully. “And this is where it gets scary.”

Waylon felt his scalp tightening at those words. He very much doubted that things _could_ get scarier, but he supposed Miles didn't quite know just _how_ close he'd gotten to Eddie.

“Father Martin? Martin Archimbaud? He’s been fucking committed as well.” Miles started laughing, but his laughter was all wrong, shrill and laced with hysteria. “Fucking all of them, Way, all of them, fucking crazy.”

“Father Martin?” Waylon said slowly. “He’s- He’s killed people?”

“Oh, no. No, no. Suffered from delusions. Said his god wanted him to kill himself. Slit his wrists and wrote the fucking Gospel on the wall before someone had the good sense to call the hospital.”

“Fuck.” Waylon had a hard time processing all of it. Eddie? Now, Eddie he could see having an unstable past. But Father Martin? Somehow the knowledge shook him to the core.

“And before you say it, Way, yeah, I get it. I won’t hold mental illness against people, okay? But don’t you think it’s a little bit suspicious that this Jeremy Blaire is somehow connected to both the church and the mental institution, in a place with no one but loonies to spread the good word?”

“I guess,” Waylon finally admitted, sagging against the seat belt.

“I’m starting to think there’s something in the fucking water, man. I dunno the statistics for mentally ill or criminals within a population, but Leadville is off the charts. All the people you’ve talked to? I’ve talked to? Frank. Chris. Even those fucking creepy twins you told me about? Committed. All of them.”

"I- I never called them creepy," Waylon mumbled.

"Well, you should've, 'cause they’re really fucking creepy." Miles stayed quiet for a moment, while thrumming furiously with his fingers on the steering wheel. "Y'know, I hope the Lead in Leadville isn't literal," he finally said.

"Oh, no," Waylon said, knowing which way the conversation was about to take, but Miles ignored him.

"It really could be something in the water! Lead poisoning? Do you have any idea on what kind of health problems that might cause?"

"I seriously doubt they’re allo-"

"It could be gas, man! No, listen," he insisted when Waylon started laughing. "I read this article, right? On leaded gasoline and its effects on crime rates."

"Crime rates and Bigfoot sightings?"

“Hey, fuck you, man, this was a serious scientific article, I swear.” Miles actually looked miffed, his bottom lip pulled down in a frown.

“I believe you, I just don’t think Leadville has leaded water supplies, lead paint, leaded gasoline and still finds time to huff leaded gas in their spare time.”

“You’ll be surprised to know,” Miles mumbled. “That lead collects in the soil. Now imagine growing your food in that.”

Waylon’s mouth snapped shut, the thought of Eddie’s muddy fingers in his mouth flashing in his mind. He didn’t have anything to say to that statement, so he stayed quiet, staring sullenly out at the world passing by instead. Then, about fifteen minutes later, Miles turned off the road and drove into the forest where the dirt road made the car sputter and jump.

“Where are we going?” Waylon finally asked.

“My contact? The one I went to meet? Hope’s mom. Said there was a church out here. _The real church_ , she called it, and I swear, it brought chills the way she said it.”

“Isn’t it about time we called the fucking cops?” Waylon started fishing his phone out of his pocket, but Miles batted his hand away.

“And watch them fuck it up? No, Waylon, this shit, we gotta find evidence and then we need to go there personally. There’s no way I’m letting them drop this case because of lack of fucking evidence.” Miles’ eyes shone feverishly in the muted evening light. “I’m not gonna fuck this up, Waylon. Not again.”

He made a sharp turn in behind some trees, killing the engine. He sat quietly for a little while, scanning the treeline.

“I brought cameras. We gotta record this shit.” He fumbled in the backseat for an old beaten up camcorder which he thrust into Waylon’s hand. “No matter what you see, you got that?”

Waylon stared down at the camera in his hands, his palms sweaty. Still, he looked up at Miles’ tired face and nodded. This is where it ended. If Eddie was- If Eddie had done something like this, then Waylon had an obligation to stop him. Not just for the victims and their families, but for Miles. In front of him Miles look relieved. Somehow that shook Waylon more than anything else, that Miles had doubted he'd do the right thing if Eddie _was_ involved.

“What do I do?”

“I say we split up, go at it from two different angles and see what we get. If someone sees you-” Miles stared out the window. “Just run.”

“You’re making this sound awfully risky,” Waylon laughed, cursing the way his voice wavered.

Miles looked at him then, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. “You’ll be okay, Way.” Then after a pat on Waylon's hand he undid his safety belt, and opened the car door carefully. “You ready?”

Waylon sat frozen for a few seconds, cradling the video camera a tad too hard. “I’m ready,” he whispered, even though he didn’t feel ready at all. He took a deep breath before following Miles into the surprisingly cool evening.

“You know, they always split up in horror movies, and it’s never a good idea,” Waylon whispered, but Miles just smiled at him.

“This isn’t a horror movie,” he said fondly, but Waylon wasn’t so sure that it wasn’t. “Meet back here in sixty minutes?”

Waylon nodded and after a few heartbeats they walked in separate directions. Waylon had to resist the urge to give him a hug before they split up. Doing that would just add a finality to the moment, and not ease Waylon’s nerves at all.

It was nearing dusk, and even though the summer night was still mild, the forest was going dark around him. Waylon swallowed around the lump in his throat and stayed a few yards away from the dirt road snaking its way through the forest, counting on the trees and the underbrush to keep him hidden should anyone walk or drive past. Despite the warm air, a chill had settled in Waylon’s bones and he shivered as he made his way deeper into the forest.

He couldn’t see Miles anymore, not even as a brief shadow, despite knowing where he was. He hoped that meant they’d be hidden from whoever might be in here with them as well.

Waylon was fond of hiking. He’d taken Lisa and the kids on long treks in the mountains, stopping to roast chestnuts in open fires and sleeping under the stars. He’d never once been afraid. Now a cold sweat was clinging to him like second skin, his feet having trouble finding footing in the uneven terrain. He had never been as well-trained as he would have liked, but now his feet seemed to find every single twig on the ground, and his breath had grown ragged. But still he kept on moving forward.

It wasn’t the creaks of broken twigs or his increasingly raspy breath that was the worst of it, no, worst of all was that he kept thinking he saw things in the darkness around him.

It made sense, really. The forest was coming alive with sounds of animals and birds, but his brain kept misinterpreting what happened around him. He’d hear the gentle hoot of an owl, and for a split second think it was someone calling out for him. The sound of flapping wings somehow translated into fluttering of cloth. And he kept seeing Eddie. Kept seeing his severe face in every bush and every tree, his green dalmatic in every leaf. He had to keep reminding himself that there was no way it was really him. And it was easier to convince himself of that, when he started seeing Lisa. Kept seeing her dart right out of view. And when he heard Alfie and Michael laugh somewhere just out of reach.

Maybe God was in the forest. Waylon licked his lips, clinging a little harder to the camera. Maybe God had come down to punish him. Truth was that despite his earlier rapt thoughts of God and Eddie, he had little interest in meeting God after what happened to Lisa, Alfie and Michael. Truth was that he’d been, and still was, if he was being honest, furious with any god who’d take them away from him. With any God that would allow pain to someone like Eddie. Now that feeling was laced with a slight panic over the things Waylon had done. He could tick them off on his fingers; Leading one of God’s men astray. Lying. Fornication and sodomy. Maybe he’d be forced to walk these woods for all eternity, seeing his lover and family in the grass and in the skies, never being able to decide what feelings had blossomed in his chest. Or maybe God had very little to do with any of this.

The air had been pungent with moist earth and greenery, but now Waylon realized the smell was changing. Now it started smelling of burning wood and -Waylon’s stomach lurched- roasted meat. It seemed almost as a physical, tangible thing, because at first he just smelled pork or beef, but as he got closer the smell changed to something metallic and acrid. Waylon gagged into his hands, because he realized what was going on. The smell seemed to lodge itself in his nose, moist and unpleasant, so overpowering that he thought he could _taste_ it. He knew it had to be human flesh, because the smell made his mind tingle with fear, something distinctly human and contradictory like everything else in this town, sweet and putrid and horrifying.

It didn’t take long before he saw flickering lights between the trees up ahead, and he carefully aimed the camera with trembling hands before turning it on. He adjusted the preview screen and stared at the image. Somehow it was easier to look at the flames through the screen, less immediate and personal. Too bad it wouldn’t mask the smell as well, because it was so rich that he knew it was a smell he’d never forget. He gagged again, muffling it in the crook of his arm.

He could hear people singing or chanting now, barely audible over the roar of the fire, and Waylon was thankful he couldn’t hear screaming. Once he was close enough to feel the heat of the fire on his skin, he dropped down to his knees and crawled over to the nearest bush.

What Hope’s mom had called ‘the real church’ was nothing more than a simple stone hut, its foundation crumbling slightly, with what looked like a newer construction behind it; A small amphitheatre with a large, burning cross in the middle.

Waylon dropped his camera for a second before quickly getting it back in focus. He was heaving at the sight of charred remains strapped to the cross, trying to keep quiet. Not that he really feared the others. Not at the moment anyway, because at the moment they were singing and shouting words Waylon could not distinguish. He doubted they’d be able to hear him even if he had shouted back at them. He tried to zoom in on their faces, but the distance was too great and their bodies ever-moving.

He got back on his hands and knees, moving slightly forward to get a better angle, when a large hand wrapped around his mouth. Waylon flailed and shrieked against the hand, but he was quickly incapacitated and his voice muffled.

So this was how it would end for him. Waylon pinched his eyes shut and tried to breathe around the panic. Whoever had him was far stronger than Waylon, and he tried to push back against the unknown, but it felt like pushing back against a brick wall.

“Stop it,” someone finally hissed behind him. “You want them to find you?”

Waylon’s heart plummeted straight to the bottom of his stomach at the familiar voice. Maybe he hadn’t just been seeing things out there in the forest after all.

“I’m gonna let you go, don’t scream,” Eddie warned, and released his hold around Waylon’s mouth, even though he kept his grip on his arm.

“What are you doing here, are you-” Waylon cut himself off at the expression on Eddie’s face.

“I could ask you the same,” Eddie growled, his eyes flickering briefly to the video camera in his hands.

“I’m here to stop this.” Waylon tried to make himself bigger than he felt, and for once his voice was steady.

Eddie didn’t say anything at first, just looked over Waylon’s shoulder to the scene in front of him, his eyes narrowed. His voice was pitched dangerously low when he spoke again. “I see. And how did you know where to go?”

Waylon raised his camera a little, being careful not to film Eddie’s face. No point in purposely aggravating him.

“How did _you_ know?”

Waylon tried, he really did, to keep the suspicion and accusation out of his voice, but by the look on Eddie’s face he knew he’d failed.

“I see,” Eddie said slowly. “I see what you think.” He shot an arm out before Waylon had time to dodge it, his grip like iron on the back of Waylon’s neck as he pulled him closer. “You _know_ , don’t you?” he asked, his voice suddenly smooth and sweet like honey.

Waylon couldn’t speak or fight, just stare up at Eddie’s face with wide eyes.

“That guy at the motel,” Eddie murmured, his face just inches away. “You tried to pretend you didn’t know him, but I could tell you did. See, that’s the thing-” He leaned closer still, eyes glittering dangerously in the flickering light. “I’ve lied so much that I can smell it on others. Always the same things, ‘ _I fell down the stairs. I don’t know where my father went. No, officer, I’ve never seen that woman before in my life_ ’.”

Waylon started shaking his head in disbelief, tears stinging his eyes. Eddie seemed lost in the moment and lost in himself, but worse than that, he seemed once again like a stranger.

“I guess I just didn’t want to see it, not until you came here.” Eddie sighed and looked away for a moment, fixing his eyes on the burning body on the cross. “You see, people change once they kill. They talk differently, move differently. You’re a different person," Eddie sneered, his icy glare back on Waylon’s face.

"No," Waylon groaned. After all of this, he refused to believe he had been wrong about Eddie all along.

"Yes,” Eddie hissed, his face transformed completely from the Eddie Waylon thought he knew. “You think differently too, like you're a different breed altogether. And you recognize that in others. That’s how I knew.”

“But why?” Waylon spluttered. “What do you gain from burning people?”

Eddie narrowed his eyes again, a small crease between his eyebrows. “I said I _recognize_ it in others, did-” That’s how far as he got before the whole place exploded in loud commotion.

Waylon pulled free from Eddie’s grip, and this time Eddie didn’t stop him. Waylon used the camera to look around the area, and his heart sank when he recognized Miles’ army jacket as he was being hauled out into the open by two large men. Waylon’s mind went blank with shock and behind him he heard Eddie curse.

“Miles,” Waylon whimpered, and started moving forwards, only to be stopped by Eddie once again.

“Bad idea,” he said, not looking at Waylon at all anymore, eyes stiffly on the scene in front of them.

“But, Miles, he-” Waylon tried to pry Eddie’s hands off. “I can’t just-”

“Here,” Eddie pushed a key-chain with a few rattling keys into Waylon’s hand, and Waylon stared at it in confusion before looking back up at Eddie's face. “My truck is parked by your friend’s car. Go there and start it up and wait for us. Be ready, okay? I’ll get him.”

“But-” Waylon started, but Eddie quickly interrupted him.

“I said I’ll get him!”

“You’d really-?”

Eddie probably heard the immense gratitude in Waylon’s voice, because when he finally turned to him, his eyes were mild. “Just go.” he said softly, and with that he let go of Waylon’s shoulder and moved out into the open, the roar of the fire mixing with the roar of the cult.


	16. Chapter 16

* * *

Waylon ran.

He no longer cared if he was being silent or not, because he knew it didn’t matter anymore. Their cover was blown and their faces exposed. Maybe they had only seen Miles’ face, but it was enough. Waylon panted into the air as he ran through the forest, branches whipping his face.

He almost turned around more than once, stopping dead in his tracks when he swore he could hear Miles screaming, but in the end he did what Eddie had told him, following the dirt road towards where he knew the cars would be. It shouldn’t be so easy to blindly follow instructions from Eddie, but it was. Frighteningly so. He tried not to think about what Miles would say to that. What he himself would have said to that just a mere week ago.

This time the forest was empty, and Waylon couldn’t tell if it was better or worse than being followed by Eddie and his dead family. This time he felt utterly alone. Not even God was following him anymore. Nothing but his ragged breaths and ever-thrumming heartbeat.

Without the burden of their faces, though, It didn’t take too long before Waylon reached the small clearing off the road where the cars were parked. He had to fumble with the keys for a moment, hands shaking, when he tried to unlock Eddie’s truck, but he finally got it open and slammed the door shut behind him, locking it.

In there, in such a tightly confined space, his harsh breaths were so loud it drowned out everything else. He kept thinking he heard footsteps and mutterings, but when he tried to hold his breath, his heart was buzzing like the ocean in his ears. Everything was too quiet, and at the same time so tremendously loud. He'd had some vague hopes he’d feel better once safe inside, but he’d never felt more trapped. He almost considered unlocking the car and going back for Eddie and Miles, but he stayed put.

He waited, though he wasn’t entirely sure what for. Eddie had told him to start the car and be ready, but Waylon worried that starting the car too early would mean a greater chance of being detected. Then again; Starting it too late might mean Eddie and Miles had a greater chance of being caught. He put the key in the ignition and turned it, letting the truck be idle and waiting. Best doing what Eddie had told him.

During one of their first dates, he’d taken Lisa to a haunted house for Halloween. They had been stuck in a room for what seemed like ages, Lisa’s face tucked into his neck with her arms around his shoulders. He’d felt so strong them. Invincible. Very far removed from the Waylon of the present, his face pale, sweaty locks of hair clinging to his forehead. He’d always been the protector, and feeling like he was suddenly the one to need protecting was unnerving. Even more so because it was so easy to relinquish that control.

He didn't have much time to analyze his feelings, because suddenly he wasn't alone anymore. At first he thought he was just seeing things again, because Eddie looked like a ghost. His face was pale in the half-darkness of the forest, save for darker spots spurted over his face, which Waylon realized had to be blood. Thrown carelessly over his shoulders was Miles. If Eddie looked like a ghost, then Miles looked like a corpse, his face ashen with eyes that seemed to stare into nothingness. There was blood down the front of Eddie’s shirt, and Waylon realized Miles was bleeding profusely.

Waylon leant over and unlocked the passenger door, pushing it open just in time for Eddie to unceremoniously unload Miles and the camera on the seat between them. Waylon had the feeling that if he hadn’t opened the door, then Eddie would have chucked Miles on top of the truck instead.

Miles tried to catch himself, but groaned as his hands came in contact with the seat, and Waylon stared in horror when he realized why Miles was bleeding. One of his fingers were cut clean off, pale bone barely visibly through the inky blood that was currently pumping onto the car seat and Waylon’s leg.

“Move it,” Eddie growled behind him, and Miles shot a pleading look up at Waylon’s face before Eddie just pushed him over so he could sit down next to him. “Well? What are you waiting for? Drive!”

Waylon didn’t need to be told twice, and the entire truck jerked and shot into motion as he maneuvered it back onto the dirt road. Behind them he could see people emerging from the forest and sprinting after the car. He didn’t have time to count them, but they seemed more like a swarm of ants than human beings. One of them caught up to them and latched onto the passenger door, a face Waylon hadn't seen before suddenly pressed against the window, teeth bared. Eddie calmly rolled the window down enough to stick his hand out, and without missing a beat he grabbed the man’s head and smashed it hard against the edge of the window. There was a sickening crunch and a groan, and then Eddie let go of him. The man rolled off to the side and didn’t get back up.

“Jesus,” Waylon whispered in a shaking voice.

“What did I tell you about using His name in vain, darling?” Eddie chided without any real heat behind the words and rolled his window back up.

“What-” Waylon glanced over at Miles, who was staring blindly at his bleeding finger, making no move to stop the bleeding. “What the fuck happened? Eddie, for God’s sake, help him!”

“I got him, didn’t I?” Eddie grumbled, and Miles visibly flinched when Eddie grabbed his hand. “Though it seems like the doctor got to him first.” He didn’t bother with his own shirt, but tore off a piece of Miles’ well-washed college sweater and used the strips of fabric to tie around Miles’ wound.

“Thank you,” Waylon breathed, almost swerving off the road as he finally made it out of the forest.

Miles was pressed up against Waylon as closely as he could, a clear three inches between Eddie and himself despite the cramped space. Eddie didn’t say anything, just gave Miles an indignant stare, huffed and then stared out the window.

“Miles, you okay?” Waylon risked a quick glance on Miles’ face, while Miles just stared back at him with his lips slightly parted. He looked like he was about to dry-heave any moment. He didn’t answer, so Waylon patted his good hand with what he hoped was a comforting touch, and turned to Eddie. “Eddie, are you hurt?”

“No,” Eddie said without turning around, and Waylon tried not to think about the blood on his face and forearms.

“Where do we go?”

Eddie and Miles spoke at the same time, Miles rasping out the word “Police," while Eddie said something that sounded like “Home.” After speaking they sent each other a look, Miles paling.

“I guess-” Miles finally said after a moment's hesitation. “It’ll be better if we go back to the motel and regroup.” He pointedly didn’t look at Eddie at all, eyes stiffly on the road in front of them.

Eddie didn’t say anything to that, just hummed, but Waylon thought he sounded pleased.

“Motel it is,” Waylon gritted out, trying to keep his focus on the road while checking the rear view mirror every five seconds. “Doesn’t look like they are following us.”

“Doesn’t look like they’re on this _road_ , darling,” Eddie said lazily. “Doesn’t mean they aren’t after us.”

“What the f-” Waylon cut himself off. “How can you be so calm about this?”

Eddie leaned back in his seat, something profoundly eerie in his expression as he seemed to stare through the roof of the car and into the night. It was an intensely menacing look of mild amusement mixed with something Waylon couldn’t quite place. “Do you think God is so ready to abandon us?”

There was something- Waylon shook his head. There was something almost unsure about the way he posed the question, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it. He had to keep his eyes on the road.

Waylon took all the small side roads he knew of while driving back to the motel, weaving in and out of as many connected streets as he could. He felt like a detective in a film noir, though in this version his pretty love interest in a sheer blouse was switched with a hulking beast of a man in a bloody suit.

“Potato, tomato,” Waylon whispered to himself, barely suppressing a hysterical giggle, ignoring the look Miles sent him.

They all stayed quiet after that, Eddie still staring up at the ceiling with that same expression on his face, while Miles tried some sort of Morse code with his eyes that Waylon couldn’t follow along with. In short it was like every road trip he’d ever had with Miles, minus the deacon, the old mix tapes and the greasy bags of chips. Waylon felt laughter bubble in his throat again, but he knew that if he allowed it free, then he'd laugh himself into hysterics.

It didn’t take long for them to reach the motel and Waylon parked as close to Miles’ room as he could without actually nudging the door with the bumper of the car. Eddie seemed to take it all in a stoic fashion, even if he got out of the car before Waylon had a chance to ask him to help with Miles, who Waylon ended up having to support on his own over to the motel door. Miles didn’t say a word when Waylon reached into his pocket for the keys, but the look Eddie sent Waylon didn’t go unnoticed.

Waylon turned on the lights with his elbow when he came into the room, blinking against the chaos that was illuminated, his pulse quickening.

Miles had outdone himself. The room didn’t just _look_ like a nest anymore, Waylon was sure that if he tried to look through the papers and trash on the bed he’d find both twigs and saliva gluing it all together. Miles didn’t seem too concerned with the clutter, breaking free from Waylon’s grasp so he could stumble and fall into the mess on his bed with a groan. Eddie stood in silence, his face scrunched up in disgust at the sight of the room.

With an awkward cough Waylon locked the door behind them, clearing his throat as he offered the one free chair to Eddie, who declined with a shake of his head. Instead he walked up to the papers and pictures on the wall with a frown and Waylon wished with everything he had that he had the ability to freeze time somehow.

In the chaos he had completely forgotten about Miles’ little map on the wall, Eddie’s name circled and underlined and just about anything else to make it the central point of the whole thing. Eddie walked up to it, trailing his hand across his own name, not that dissimilar from the way Waylon had touched it earlier. Waylon tried to swallow around the lump in his throat.

“We, uh, if-”

“You’re what? Reporters? Detectives?” Eddie didn’t look at Waylon, just looked through the papers with a mask of indifference on his face. Waylon saw through it, at the way his fists were clenched and his jaw was set.

“I’m a reporter,” Miles shot in, giving Waylon an apologetic look. “I dragged Way into this.”

“I see,” Eddie murmured, pausing to look at a drawing Miles had made of Eddie’s mugshot. He’d gotten a lot of details right; the hair, the blood on his face, though this Eddie had fangs and cartoonish googly eyes. Eddie hummed and moved to look at a photograph of William Hope. “And what exactly is the nature of your relationship?”

Waylon could tell it was a difficult thing for Eddie to ask, by the way his jaw was working and his fists were paling.

“Way-Way and I go way back,” Miles grinned before Waylon had the chance to stop him, and Eddie turned slowly towards him, his fists actually trembling now. If Waylon had thought his previous expression unsettling, it was nothing to the one on his face now.

Waylon sent Miles a sharp look. Well, he supposed he should be pleased that Miles was feeling better. But judging by the look Eddie was sending him, it wouldn’t last for long.

“We’re _friends_ , Eddie,” Waylon interjected before something truly terrible happened. “We went to freaking kindergarten together.”

Eddie visibly deflated a little, giving a short nod before turning back to the papers. “So this is why you came here?”

Waylon thought about the answer for a moment too long, finally deciding on the truth. “Yes,” he admitted, and Eddie’s shoulders slumped for the briefest of seconds before he rolled them back with a grunt.

“I see,” Eddie said slowly. It almost looked like he was debating himself before he spoke again, his voice strained. “And what exactly were you to gain from letting me fuck you? From letting me think you loved me? For allowing some hope to enter my life, even when none of it were true?”

“You- What?” Miles had his hand raised as if he wanted to point at them, looking from one to the other in a way that would have been funny in any other setting. Waylon would have been proud to surprise him had it been about anything else. But there was nothing funny about this.

“That had nothing to do with the case,” Waylon tried, and Eddie was in front of him in three large strides, face a mere inch away from Waylon’s. The look on his face had Waylon take a step back, but Eddie grabbed his upper arms, holding him in place.

“You come here,” Eddie snarled. “And you _fuck_ things up for me, you fuck _me_ up, and for what?”

“Hey, man, hey,” Miles put a hand on Eddie’s shoulder which Eddie shrugged away before turning to Miles with a glare. He didn’t say a word, but Miles backed off like Eddie had punched him. It made Waylon wonder what exactly Miles had seen Eddie do in the forest.

Eddie’s eyes snapped back to Waylon, icy and dangerous, but when he spoke again his voice was deceptively soft. “Did you know about my past? Was that why you pursued me?”

“Of course not,” Waylon tried to push Eddie’s hands off, but they were like a vice around his upper arms.

“Was any of it real? The sob story about the dead wife and kids?”

Waylon paled, and next to him he could hear Miles curse under his breath. This time Waylon found his lost strength and pushed Eddie off enough to fish his wallet out of his pants. There, with shaking hands, he flipped through the content until he found what he was looking for.

In the photograph Alfie was just a few months old, nestled in the fabric of Lisa’s lap, with Michael doing cartwheels in front of them. Lisa still had some extra weight on her face from the pregnancy, and Waylon regretted not telling her every single day how beautiful she was. They were both laughing, Waylon looking carefree and young, very young, even though the picture wasn’t more than a few years old.

Eddie still had his eyes on Waylon, but his gaze flickered down to the photograph before refocusing on Waylon again. A strange expression crossed Eddie’s face, and even though he met Waylon’s eyes with ease, he suddenly looked sucker punched.

“You keep them out of this.” Waylon cursed the way his voice wavered, but he hoped Eddie got the message either way. He started putting the photograph back into the wallet, but something there got Eddie’s attention. Without a word Eddie snatched the wallet out of Waylon’s hands, pulling out the folded photograph.

Next to the family portrait, Eddie’s mugshot was grotesque. Eddie stared at it for a moment and his expression melted into one of bleak hopelessness, before it quickly smoothed out. Waylon wanted to say something, anything, but he suddenly was at a loss for anything to say. So instead he just watched Eddie as his eyes turned glassy before hardening again. Then, without another look at Waylon, he took a step back.

“If nothing else, I hope you’ll have the decency to keep me out of this.” And with those words, he turned to leave.

Waylon reached his hands out to grasp Eddie’s, but Eddie pulled his hand away. It was like the previous night in the parking lot, but a cruel mockery of it. Then he crossed the floor and slammed the door behind him when he left. And just like that he was gone. Yet again, he was gone.

It almost felt like Waylon’s chest was caving in on itself, and he ran to the door after a brief moment of stunned disbelief. Eddie was already gone once Waylon flung the door open, but his car was still parked outside. He was about to run out after him, when Miles called him back, and with shaking hands Waylon closed the door, running his hands through his hair.

He didn’t turn around right away, just kept one hand on the door, but if it was to somehow will Eddie back to the other side of it, or to keep himself upright, he couldn’t really say. All he knew was that something raw had opened up right behind his breastbone, his heart thumping desperately, although it felt like he wasn’t getting enough oxygen.

“Shit,” he mumbled, and behind him Miles made a small sound of agreement. He gave the door a weak knock of his fist, before turning around. At the sight of Miles’ face, something occurred to him, and he turned in alarm. “Miles, your car is still in the forest.”

“They can keep it,” Miles whispered, and Waylon watched him when he started flexing his fingers, staring at the ruined stump.

“What happened?” Waylon sat down across from Miles, taking his hands into his own.

“Dunno, really. Was hiding in the woods, when someone knocked me out. Woke up next to the burned kid,” At this he visibly shivered. “Then that living corpse doctor appeared and cut my damn finger off.”

“Eddie told me to go to the car,” Waylon offered as explanation, and Miles nodded slowly.

“I knew Gluskin was vicious, but-” Miles went quiet again, not finishing his sentence.

“What did he…?”

Miles didn’t answer, just shook his head slowly, before looking up at Waylon. The look on his face had a chill go down Waylon’s back. He made no attempt to move or speak.

“What now?” Waylon asked. “I feel like we suddenly-”

“Sank to the very bottom of this?” Miles shot in, and Waylon nodded. “I say we gather the evidence and head over to the police. I’m done,” Miles cursed under his breath again. “I’m fucking done, man.”

They worked in silence after that, gathering the photographs, the videos, the notes and even the audio from the bug Waylon had been wearing. According to Miles they might not mean much in court, but all gathered together they had to admit it was impressive. Waylon kept the mugshot of Eddie in his wallet, and Miles didn’t ask for it, giving him a nod instead when they had the stuff gathered.

“You ready?”

“No,” Waylon laughed without mirth. “But I don’t think I’ll ever be.”

Waylon had the strange feeling they were moving in syrup. Or maybe it was just his own feeling of being in a vacuum. Either way his movements were sluggish and out of tune, and Miles sent him more than one confused stare.

“Will you-” Waylon started, but he wasn’t sure how to end the sentence, how to ask for what he had to - what he _needed_ to - ask for.

"Will I what?" Miles finally asked, and Waylon could tell by the worry in his voice that more time had passed than Waylon was aware of.

“Please leave him out of this.” It was a weak plea, and Waylon clenched his teeth together at the look in Miles’ eyes.

Miles blinked twice, clearly startled either by the question or the expression on Waylon’s face. “Way…” Miles said pleadingly. “I recognize that look, man, don’t do this to me.”

Waylon had a sudden flashback of too many empty bottles of scotch and full voice mails.

“This isn’t like that,” he said stubbornly, and something sad crossed Miles’ face when he shook his head with a smile. Then he crossed the distance between them and knocked his forehead down to Waylon’s, clasping the back of his neck.

“Don’t disappear again, Way, please,” Miles whispered softly, his eyes closed. “I can’t bear for you to leave again.”

Had it been anyone else, the movement and the caress would be far too intimate, but Waylon wrapped his arms around Miles’ middle and pulled him closer. If anyone had seen them, if, _God forbid_ , Eddie had seen them, they would have misinterpreted the situation, but Waylon just relaxed against the uncomplicated touch with a calming sigh.

“I won’t. This isn’t like that.” Though, deep inside, Waylon had to wonder.

“Remember what I said, yeah?” Miles pulled away from Waylon and studied the expression on his face with what Waylon liked to call his ‘bloodhound look’, and Waylon wiped his face clean of emotion. “Gluskin is a killer.”

“ _Was_ a killer,” Waylon corrected, and Miles’ brow furrowed in disapproval.

“Yeah, well.” Miles pulled away with a sigh. “I’ll leave him out of it, but then I want us to _leave_ , you got it?”

Waylon would have agreed to anything, so he nodded and forced a small smile. “I do.”

Miles studied him for a few heartbeats more, before finally pulling away. “Then let’s go.”

They would have to use Waylon’s car, and Miles grabbed the backpack filled with evidence and flung it across his shoulder before following Waylon to the door. They shared one last look before reaching for the doorknob; Miles’ calm and collected, Waylon’s wide and terrified.

“We got this,” Miles assured him, patting his shoulder as Waylon unlocked the door, and Waylon almost agreed with him.

Except they didn’t have it.

The second Waylon turned the lock, the door was pushed back against its hinges with a loud crack, and the twins from the church entered the motel room, both with vacant expressions on their faces.

“These the guys?” The taller one said quietly.

“I’d assume so, it’s their room after all.”

“Do you see the bed?”

“Yes. Unsavoury things?”

“Seems that way.”

“Disgusting.”

Waylon and Miles just stared at them during the quick exchange, the twins sounding bored or jaded. Perhaps a little of each.

“Get the fuck out,” Miles growled, taking a step forward. Waylon felt too stunned to do anything at all, eyes darting from one to the other.

“I’d like to quiet him,” the taller twin said, and the other nodded.

“Tear his tongue out.”

“Can’t speak without a tongue.”

“Very true.”

At the church, in a quiet and serene setting, the twins had almost blended in with the background, but here, in a cramped motel room, they seemed grotesque and deformed; Their heads too big for their bodies, and their jaws too wide for their heads.

“It’s time,” One of the twins said, Waylon unsure which one, before they both shot forward, and the last thing Waylon saw before the world went black was a fist headed right for his face.

_Shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so very sorry for the double cliffhanger. Will post next chapter earlier than I did this one.


	17. Chapter 17

The world was gone, lost in a shower of sparks and smoke.

Waylon tried to open his eyes, but had to shut them tightly due to the stinging of smoke, but not quickly enough to keep them from watering. He groaned, but when he tried to raise his hands to rub at his eyes, his wrist met resistance and tugged right back into position. Then the smell registered.

In some ways, it was stronger, in others, weaker, than the smell that he had hunted in the forest. It didn’t have that intense, foul stench from earlier, but in ways it just made it worse, because now it mingled comfortably with burning food and the sound of crackling as wood shifted. It reminded Waylon of Christmas. He shuddered against the restraints.

“Miles?” He managed to cough out, licking his dry lips desperately. He heard nothing, nothing but the crackle of a fire, and he tried again, louder this time though it ended in a violent coughing fit. “Miles?!”

Through the thick smoke he thought he heard something, and, encouraged, he called his name again. “Miles? Answer me!” After shouting he tilted his head back and forth, trying to get a reading on where the sounds had come from, but this time there was nothing at all.

Waylon leaned back against the restraints, trying to think through the fog that had entered his brain. Still, the fog was preferable to blind panic. He tugged experimentally at the restraints again, feeling the slight give, trying to gauge how much leeway he had. Not much, he concluded. It didn’t feel like metal, more like plastic, judging by the give and feel. Too bad it wasn’t rope.

He was tied to a pole of sorts, the peeling wood rough against his wrists, and he knocked his head weakly against it. He was a coward. He’d always been a coward. If this had been some movie, or an inspirational documentary of sorts, then this would be the moment where he shed the old Waylon and emerged as someone braver. But of course he didn’t. Instead he slumped against the pole with a sigh. No, he’d probably sit quietly for someone to rescue him. People didn’t change.

Lulling that idea over in his head, Waylon spent a good ten minutes trying to pull the restraints off without much luck, before coming to the realization that he was, indeed, alone.

Ignoring the slight panic that had started blossoming in his chest, he dug his heels into the ground beneath him and pressed his back against the pole. He was able to slide up in a standing position this way, and he surveyed his surroundings again.

The trees surrounding him made him think he was back in the forest, like he both suspected and feared, but through the smoke he could see the outline of a building that looked nothing like the church in the forest. This looked like a grand Victorian building, and Waylon wondered for a moment if he had gone insane. The whole building seemed to flicker in and out of existence through the smoke that pulsed with heat. Smoke was pouring out through cracks in the windowsills, roughly the colour of sludge, and it smelled acrid. From what little Waylon knew about smoke and fires, that meant the structure itself wasn’t on fire yet, but it was close. Very close. He didn’t want to be this close once the fire heated up and the pressure started building inside.

At first the area had been deathly quiet, sans the halfway comfortable sound of a fire crackling. Well, comfortable until he realized it wasn’t the burning of a fireplace, but that wild, terrifying fire that consumed and nothing more. But now he heard things other things as well; Screaming and people shouting.

“Hey!” Waylon called, tugging at the restraints. “Hey! Help me!” But either they didn’t hear him or they chose not to care, for no one came to his aid. “Fuckers,” Waylon grumbled, and pressed himself against the pole again, feeling if there was any way for him to break the damn thing in two, or at the very least tilt it enough to slip the restraints over the top. One thing he knew for sure; He was not about to die here.

The smoke was getting thicker around him, and the wooden frames around the windows near the ground started buckling and blacken, before the glass finally warped and shattered on the ground.

As soon as they did, Waylon heard a great roar, like a jet engine, before the place exploded in flames, the smoke turning black as it spewed out of the open windows. It was nearing the point of no return, and Waylon dug his heels in further so he could yank himself back against the pole with all he had. No, he was definitely not dying here today.

Something creaked - For a moment Waylon was certain it was his back - before the world tipped and twirled. He wasn’t sure what had happened, until it finally registered that he was laying flat on the ground. He blinked a few times at the sky above him, at the smoke that trailed up against the sky.

It was a terrible thing, this smoke, thick and black and all-consuming, flashing red with heat and flames. It burnt his throat and nose, and his lungs contracted around it.

But, oh, how tranquil the heavens seemed above him. The easiest thing would be to lie here, and just let the smoke sedate him into unconsciousness. The thought scared him, even more than the flames, because he knew it meant the smoke was already having an effect on him.

He had pulled the whole pole out of the ground, and he made short process of dragging himself off of it with a groan. His wrists were still tied tightly together behind his back, but he’d just have to work with it.

First he got on his knees, coughing, before he got on his feet. He was trembling with the effort, his knees knocking awkwardly together. It wasn’t just the building that was on fire, he realized with a start, it looked like the whole damn forest was as well.

He moved away from the wall and stumbled forward, trying to get his bearings. Not far from the broken pole he found another, but this one was still standing. He wondered if Miles had been tied there, or where he was at this very moment. He found it hard to believe Miles escaping without getting Waylon as well. He scanned his surroundings for Miles, calling out his name between each fit of coughing.

The smoke burned his lungs, but he kept himself moving forward, trying to push his chin beneath the hem of his shirt. He kept seeing things in the fog, like he had in the forest, though this time it wasn’t Eddie or Lisa; He kept thinking he saw something tall and wild, a thing made out of fire and smoke, but he had to be hallucinating. Every time he moved closer to it, it kept itself at a distance. He shook his head and looked ahead instead, and startled.

Something loomed over him in the foggy half-darkness, and for a brief, disorienting moment he thought he had ended up right where he started. The victorian building towered over him, but it suddenly seemed a lot less damaged that he remembered from just a short moment ago.

He stared up at it in pensive silence. He wasn’t entirely sure if he should try to cut through the building, or find a way around it. Perhaps he’d found himself in a courtyard of sorts, but he wasn’t sure if going for another side to confirm his suspicions would be a bad idea or not. He hesitated, but decided to try it. He followed the wall until he found a corner, just like he had suspected, and he followed the new wall blindly.

The courtyard was large with geometric shapes in the form of lawns and walkways, which made him think he really was in a courtyard. Had Miles said anything of this size being close-by? Waylon couldn’t remember.

He tried doing a wide sweep of the courtyard, in search for Miles. He kept seeing shapes in the fog, but when he reached them all he found was just neatly cut shrubs and lawns, hidden under a layer of smoke. And if he thought he saw that ghostly creature in the fog again, then he pretended he didn’t, scurrying forward instead.

Once he found the side he had been tied to, where the flames were still ravaging, he cut straight through and towards the fourth and final wall, hoping to find a grand entryway leading outside.

The place was large enough to be a school or a hospital. Maybe a museum, but Waylon hoped it proved to be some condemned old building without people left inside or any real purpose. He thought about the screams earlier and shuddered.

The windows were all far up to the wall, and he didn’t have a chance at reaching them in his current predicament, and he walked until he found a stately looking staircase that curved up to wide double doors. It was awkward turning around to open it, but he somehow managed it and opened them with his shoulder.

He hesitated before he entered, and looked back at the courtyard, before finally peeking in through the doors. The inside smelled sterile, linoleum floor scrubbed beneath his feet, and Waylon stared at it in stunned silence.

The room was large, with pillars supporting a beautiful curved ceiling. It seemed to be a living area of sorts, plush sofas scattered about, with large windows framing the double doors he’d entered through. He imagined it had looked beautiful once, but now it seemed neglected, the fake plants set around the room adding to the melancholy he felt. It felt artificial in the worst sense of the word, impersonal and empty underneath it all.

The place unnerved him, it looked abandoned, but at the same time he had the distinct feeling that people had been here very shortly before he entered the building. It was like an echo in the air, like the walls had soaked up the life within before it was gone. A shiver went down his back.

He had been too busy trying to escape the fire to think much about Eddie. Or the twins for that matter. He suspected that if any of them had been close by, then they would have heard him when he was calling out for Miles. He wasn’t sure if he would be relieved or terrified if he saw Eddie in these halls. Maybe a mixture of both.

He crossed the floor, disappointed that there were no windows on the opposite side of the wall, and made his way into another corridor with doors lining the walls. Maybe it really was a hospital. He repeated the trick where he turned around to use his bound hands, but this time the doorknob just rattled uselessly between his fingers.

He didn’t let that discourage him, but kept walking down the desolate hallway, checking every door he came across without any real luck, nothing but the faint hum of the dim lights overhead.

When he hit a glass door at the end of the hallway he almost didn’t notice the fine mesh in between layers of glass, and he blinked at it. When Michael started pre-school they had been in a process of switching out the old wire mesh glass, deeming it unsafe. This building had to be old then, and not up to code. Not that it mattered at the moment, but he gathered the information in his head for when he saw Miles again, because in Waylon’s head there was not even the slightest possibility that they wouldn’t.

He paused when he saw plaques at the wall, and he read the print breathlessly, glancing back where he came from, before looking back up again. Apparently he had just exited the day room and male ward, and according to the plaques, the next hallway lead to various therapy rooms, reception area and chapel.

Waylon perked up and continued walking. He was close then. Very close.

That sense of relief soon faded when he started noticing the blood. It started as drips on the floor, increasing in size and frequency until it started appearing on the walls as well. Streaks of it at first, like someone had stumbled and held on to the walls for support, but soon they turned into words, and words turned into sentences.

‘God always provides a way. Follow the blood.’

Waylon’s stomach lurched. Of course. The cult. He had been so caught up with his current predicament that he had almost forgotten about the cult that had lead him here to begin with.

He was reminded of what Miles had told him, about Father Martin. His gaze followed the bloody letters. He couldn’t quite picture the serene priest scribbling furiously across the walls with blood, but apparently he wasn’t a great judge of character.

Despite the more rational voice in the back of his head, he chose to carry on, forcing himself forward, even if that meant that he was, indeed, following the trail of blood.

It was more of the same further down; the word ‘witness’ scribbled across locked doors he couldn’t open. At least he had a plan, even if he had nothing else. He wished he could find something, anything, to remove the tight strips around his wrists. He hated feeling completely helpless. He couldn’t even run right, should anyone chase after him.

He turned a corner, finding the words ‘drive in the nails’ in large, capitalized letters, and near the end of the last letter he noticed clumps of hair. Christ almighty. Waylon felt faint.

“What have I gotten myself into, Lisa?” he asked softly.

She didn’t answer, of course she didn’t, because she never did, but he still found it comforting to talk to her, and imagine how she’d reply to him. He found it peculiar that he never talked to Eddie this way, but he realized he wouldn’t really know what Eddie would say to him.

Too caught up with thoughts of Eddie, Waylon didn’t realize right away that the smoke had followed him from the courtyard. Not until he started coughing again, and he realized he could no longer make out the other end of the hallway he was leaving behind.

With a cold sweat tightening its hold on his body, Waylon tried to quicken his pace, his bound hands making his gait awkward and shuffled. How long did it take for a fire to devour a building? Waylon bit down on his lower lip, preferring not to ponder the answer.

The fog - Was it fog? Smoke? - obscured his view of the walls and the bloody sentences on the wall as well, to which Waylon was thankful. Even when he had tried not to, his eyes had seemed to find every crimson splatter. At first he had suspected it was Father Martin’s own blood, but the sheer amount of it pointed to the blood belonging to someone else. Maybe even more than one person.

The soles of Waylon’s shoes slid in a puddle of the stuff, and he almost tripped before he regained his balance. He risked a glance behind him, seeing nothing but a wall of charcoal grey, with that same pulsing red light as before. Part of him started wondering if he’d ever escape this place at all.

Through the fog that swallowed the hallway, the walls had started looking warped and peeled, like he had slipped into some kind of nightmare world. There was something wrong with the smoke as well. Maybe it wasn’t smoke at all. Because whenever he turned a corner, the smoke would follow him with determination, like it was a living, breathing entity. Maybe it was a manifestation of the cult’s insanity. He had started to doubt that the real church was what he and Miles had found in the forest. If anything felt like the end of the road, it was this place.

Behind him he heard something that sounded like a drum, but maybe it was just the beating of his own heart. When he turned around, he saw more than a wall of smoke and the pulsing of flames. The thing from the courtyard had followed him as well. It pulsed like the fire, in and out of reality, terrible and all-consuming like all of this place. Like Eddie. Like the cult.

 _It must be the smoke_ , Waylon tried to comfort himself, staring blindly at the thing looming at the end of the hall. _I’ve inhaled the smoke and now I’m hallucinating_. It shouldn’t be a comforting thought, and in any other setting it wouldn’t be. But he preferred to think he was dying, rather than he was finally losing his mind. At least, if he died, then he’d see his sons faces again and curl his fingers in Lisa’s hair, like before. If he lost his mind here, in this place, then he suspected he’d walk these halls forever.

He tried once more to hook his shirt over his mouth, because the smoke seemed dead-set on entering his mouth and nose. His eyes were getting dry, and it stung whenever he blinked. The smoke seemed to want to take away his sense of sight, so he’d stumble around even more blindly than he already was.

Was it Eddie? Father Martin? Waylon coughed. Maybe someone else entirely. His thoughts looped like that for a while, conjuring up their faces in his mind. The faint electrical hum he’d heard before had gotten louder. An insistent scraping at his eardrums that only seemed to be getting worse. It certainly didn’t do his thinking process any favours.

How long was this hallway? Waylon felt like he had walked it for hours. He couldn’t remember the building being this long, but then again, maybe he’d simply walked into another part of it altogether.

Behind him, what he had thought was drums, or his own heart, gained in intensity. It was something hard, fast and rapidly approaching him. Like footsteps. And the intensity of the beating had his heart speed up as well, until the echoing beats ricocheted off the walls, drowning out anything else. This time Waylon didn’t look back, but awkwardly ran with his back bowed.

And that was the moment where he was certain, absolutely certain, that the smoke was more than just smoke. For when Waylon started running, perhaps identifying himself as prey, the smoke got thicker around him and that same yet-engine roar came from the depths of it.

The hallway forked ahead, and Waylon tried to determine the way that would guarantee his safety. He started running to the left, but his feet skidded on the linoleum when he saw the smoke pouring out of it, before turning and running the other way. This continued, each new fork blocked by smoke, until Waylon was certain he was being shepherded. He wished he could say it was an unfamiliar feeling.

Each narrow corner was a fight against time, as every time he took a wrong turn he’d run head-first into the toxic fumes of the smoke. For a few seconds each time he felt close to collapsing, but the hum and the roar from behind kept him going. He had a wild thought that he heard the cult’s footsteps closing in on him, and that the smoke were their flaming torches.

The hallways had started out straight and easy to navigate, but now they forked and turned until he could no longer remember where he had come from, or how long he’d been there. Everytime he risked a glance back, he could see that creature in the fog. It was fast, Waylon knew, he’d seen it jump in and out of his peripheral view, but it stalked him calmly now, never losing its vantage on him, no matter how fast he ran.

Someone had tipped a desk in the doorway up ahead, and Waylon started sweating at the sight of it. Getting over the thing with his hands behind his desk would be tricky, but he didn’t have the time to plan it any further. With a grunt he launched himself across it, before realizing it was slick with blood. He slid off and landed on his shoulder on the other side of it with an undignified yelp of pain.

The floor was covered in gore, and when Waylon tried to get back on his feet, he simply slid and fell down again. He forced himself forward on his hands and knees, ignoring the wet sounds the blood made around his fingers. The creature in the smoke was towering above the desk now, cloaked in fire.

There was no way to win this. Waylon knew it. Yet he kept pushing forward, if not for himself, then for Eddie and Miles. He’d stopped wondering if this was real or not. Even if it wasn’t, even if it was a product of his own terrified mind, it still felt real. The heat of the flames across his skin, and the blood seeping into his clothing.

The creature moved slowly over the desk in two large strides, stalking closer to its prey. It was closer than before now, and Waylon thought he could make out humanoid features in the swirls of fog that made up its face. Something about it paralyzed Waylon for a moment, before some outside force had him turn around so he was facing it.

“Please,” Waylon begged, scooting backwards away from the creature.

It didn’t stop. It simply moved closer, leaning down towards him and stretched a hand out for Waylon’s face. Waylon pinched his eyes shut, heart thundering in his chest. For a moment everything was still. And then the moment kept stretching, until Waylon dared to open his eyes.

The creature was still leaned over him. It was close enough that Waylon should be able to make out the features completely, but the smoke moved too fast for him to catch it. The hand was still outstretched, but now it seemed to be resting against something, like a sheet of glass. The smoke pushed against it, but nothing but some twirling specks of ash moved past it.

Waylon blinked, first once, then twice, before he dared to move. He kept his eyes on the creature as he moved back, and only once his hands found dry linoleum did he dare try to get back up on his feet.

The creature raised its head to keep its gaze on Waylon as he did, but didn’t move. If Waylon didn’t know any better he’d say the creature was warding off the fire behind it.

“Thank you,” Waylon breathed, and the words surprised him. With a final look at the creature, he turned and walked through the doorway.

Despite the horror, he still whistled under his breath once he realized he was in the reception area. It was a large atrium with columns and paneling of dark wood and it spanned above him in a magnificent tin ceiling. Somewhere in the back of his head he thought that it was a damn shame that this building was in the process of burning down, but he quickly lost that thought when he spotted the front doors.

Lost in the fog, he had to admit that he had lost hope. And now the doors shone like beacons in the dark. Maybe God really had listened to his prayers. At last. He glanced behind him, but the hallway was too dark to see the creature. Perhaps- He swallowed thickly, abandoning the thought.

A large, square, reception desk dominated most of the room, and Waylon walked around it only to be greeted by the corpse of a young man in a uniform. Maybe he had been a guard or a receptionist. Now he was reduced to- Waylon swallowed thickly. Someone had used the old fashioned telephone to smash his head in, and a deep cut was made along the length of his torso. Waylon wondered if all the blood from the hallways came from him, or if others had lost their lives. He didn’t want to think about it.

Stepping around him, mumbling a quick apology as he did, he made his way to the front doors. It must be nearing dawn, because he could see faint lights in the distance, like the fire he had left behind, but without the implications.

Then, suddenly, his body jerked forward on its own accord, and Waylon stopped, puzzled.

A low sound escaped his lips as the pain registered. It felt- It felt like boiling water was being poured down the back of his shirt and across his bound hands, and for a short, crazy second he thought that he had finally caught on fire.

“What-” he mumbled, disoriented.

“You weren’t supposed to leave the courtyard,” a cold voice said from behind, and then someone yanked something out of Waylon’s back.

Now, intellectually, Waylon knew he had just been stabbed. Knew it with absolute certainty, even though he had never been stabbed before. But he still found the thought hard to hold on to. In fact, everything felt too hard to hold on to.

“I thought it might be you,” he whispered, because that voice was hard to mistake.

With a harsh yank, Waylon was turned around by his shoulder, and he saw eyes that glinted like the steel in his hand, and not even a moment of hesitation before it was plunged back into Waylon’s stomach.

 _Shit_ , Waylon thought with a flood of deja vu and fell forward to his knees.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to start this chapter by screaming of joy. The lovely [Peachycans](http://archiveofourown.org/users/peachycans) drew [Eddie's mugshot](http://peachycans.tumblr.com/post/157718419478/good-ol-eds-mugshot-from-call-of-the-void-by) and I'm so happy I could cry. Thank you so much <3

* * *

   
When he came to, the world had changed again. But despite the change, the fire had still found him and he groaned when he realized smoke was pouring relentlessly into the room from below the doors.

In front of him, tied to a large, wooden cross, was Father Martin. He looked beaten and exhausted, but alive. Waylon realized they had to be in the chapel mentioned on the plaques, because the curved ceiling didn’t match the squat little building in the woods.

“Waylon! Are you okay, are you-” Father Martin coughed, but beside the obvious weakness of body, his voice almost seemed to have grown stronger.

The front of Waylon’s shirt felt heavy and damp, and he stared down at the mix of his and some stranger’s blood with a sort of cold detachment. He couldn’t really say how much of it was his own, but he felt dizzy and tired which didn’t seem to be a good sign.

“I-I’m okay,” he called back, before he awkwardly rolled over to his knees so he could get back up on his feet. As long as he kept himself standing, he argued with himself, then he wouldn’t let this kill him. How long would it take to bleed out from a stomach wound? A while, if he remembered correctly, provided any major arteries or inner organs weren’t punctured. He winced at the thought and tried to press his tied arms to his side to stop the bleeding.

“Listen to me, Waylon,” Father Martin squirmed against his restraints. “You have to get out of here, you have to-!”

“I’m not leaving you,” Waylon gritted, almost falling before he managed to support himself against the pews in the room. They were plain, not at all like the richly decorated pews in the church, and he felt oddly empty touching them.

“I thought you were one of them,” Waylon confessed, groaning with the effort of walking towards the priest.

Father Martin laughed, but it sounded more like a cough. “I almost did as well, for a while.”

“Where’s Eddie?” Waylon risked a glance up at Father Martin’s face, before studying the ropes around his ankles with a frown.

“I haven’t seen him since the barbecue.” Father Martin squirmed a little, but didn’t add anything else.

Unlike Waylon’s plastic restraints, the ties around Father Martin’s midsection and ankles were made out of rough rope, and even though Waylon was tied up himself, he was pretty sure he could untie it fairly easy. His gaze trailed upwards, and he realized that what he had thought were ropes around Father Martin’s wrists, turned out to be nails hammered into his flesh instead. Waylon couldn’t help it, he gagged and coughed at the sight of the dark blood that had seeped into the wood beneath his wrists. For some reason it made it all the more real.

There was something akin to pity in Father Martin’s eyes. “You’re in over your head, aren’t you, son?”

“Yeah,” Waylon laughed, wiping his mouth on his own clothed shoulder. “I was from the start.”

“Did Eddie ever figure out that you came for the wrong reasons?” he asked mildly, and Waylon paused at what he was doing before continuing.

“Yeah,” he said. “I told him.”

“Listen to me, Waylon. I want you to run, I want you to get out of here. And I want you to be good to him, you hear me?” There was something so painfully desperate about the old priest’s words, and Waylon felt his heart clench.

“I won’t leave you,” Waylon murmured, fingers slipping over the knot. It really was awkward working without being able to see. “And should you really be saying that, Father?”

“Probably not.” Father Martin gave a long shuddering sigh. “But I meant what I said earlier. I want him to be happy.”

“I’ll try,” Waylon promised, though he wasn’t entirely sure what he was promising, if anything at all.

“He’s blossomed since you came here.”

Waylon kind of found that hard to believe, but he still made a slight, curious sound to urge him on.

“I want you to understand, Waylon, I really do.”

Waylon risked a glance up at him over his shoulder, but said nothing.

“I’m not sure if you’re familiar with the concept of mortification of the flesh. We all abide by that, in one way or the other at the church, by fasting, abstaining from sexual relations, you get the picture.”

Waylon made a small, noncommittal sound in the back of his throat. He had read about it, during those first fumbling days at the motel, but it had seemed less important after a while.

“But then,” he continued. “There’s the more extreme methods, where it’s basically a form of self-harm to exorcise man’s sinful nature. I do not agree with it.” Father Martin was speaking faster now, probably knowing they didn’t have a lot of time. “Like whipping, excessive kneeling and even-”

Something clicked in Waylon's head, and he froze.

“The scars on Eddie’s back...” Waylon said breathlessly, interrupting him, his hands pausing over the rope.

“Exactly.” Father Martin, thankfully, didn’t ask how Waylon knew about them.

“But-”

“I’m sure you’ve already know about his past, and what he’s gone through,” he continued on without waiting for Waylon’s reply. “To my knowledge he has stopped the self-flagellation, but I know he fasts vigorously. I’m hoping that you’ll find a way to get through to him. Make him happy. Make him forget his past.”

Waylon worked in silence after that, his stomach churning at the thought of Eddie and how the pieces had started to come together. He suddenly saw the previous days in a new light, and Eddie as something more than he already had been. It was strange how a single sentence could make pale scars and empty plates seem so profound.

Then, with a final tug, he was finally able to pry the rope off Father Martin’s ankles. He didn’t want to think about how the smoke kept getting thicker, or how each breath were harder than the last. And he didn’t want to think of Eddie being hurt or hurting himself anymore. The thought was too painful.

“Waylon,” Father Martin started. “Please j-”

That’s how far he got before the doors slammed open behind them.

Waylon turned in a haze, and part of him knew that what he was about to see was the beginning of the end. He expected the cult to enter, that he’d see a large group of people naked and carrying torches. He expected familiar faces, he halfway feared and halfway expected Eddie to be among them. He expected to finally know who was in the cult and who among the townspeople had been lying all along.

But instead of a large group of people, it was Jeremy Blaire, looking as self-satisfied as he ever did. Behind him trailed the doctor Miles had told him about.

“Mr. Park!” Blaire said sharply with a small smile tugging at his lips. “I wasn’t sure you were still with us.”

“Cut him too far to the left, buddy.” Dr. Trager said, and Waylon was struck by the jovial tone. The fact that he was almost stark naked, carrying a pair of garden shears kind of ruined the image, though. “Takes too long for them to bleed out.”

“Yeah, thank you,” Blaire snapped. “Where’s that other snoop?”

“Put up quite the fight,” Trager said, and Waylon realized they had to be talking about Miles. “Had to take another finger off, but he kept on fightin’.”

“What did you do with him?” Waylon whispered. He still had his back to Father Martin, and he kept tugging at the knots while he spoke, hoping that Blaire and Trager wouldn’t notice.

“Oh, dontcha worry there, buddy, he’s gonna join us in just a minute, okay?”

“So this is how it ends,” Blaire clapped his hands together and stared at the room. “Two reporters snooping around, asking too many questions, before finally being brought down by the leader of the cult.” He laughed. “And who would have thought it was you? Father Martin, one of the most respected members of our community, corrupted by religion and driven mad by power.”

“I trusted you,” Father Martin said weakly.

“As I needed you to do. I thank you for your- ah, willful participants to my research.”

“You won’t get away with this.” The words were out before Waylon had the chance to reconsider, and in front of him Blaire’s attention snapped to him with a laugh.

“Oh, I can assure you I will. Although-” he took a look around the room with a frown. “It will have to be somewhere else. Such a shame, don’t you agree, doctor? I’ve quite enjoyed this place.”

“Quite,” Trager agreed.

Waylon opened his mouth so say something more, when he heard a familiar voice outside the doors, and not a moment after Miles was brought into the room by one of the two twins. The man seemed unfazed by the kicks Miles managed to deliver, and behind them the other twin closed the door.

“You fucking sons of bitches, you won’t fucking get away with this shit, I’ll tear the fucking-”

Trager made a short snipping sound with the shears he held in his hands, and Miles went very quiet.

“What’s going on here?” Waylon asked, hating the slight tremor in his voice.

Everything paused at that moment, at least in Waylon’s mind. Maybe it was like that in all pivotal moments.

“There never was a fucking cult,” Miles finally said, his face entirely emotionless, and suddenly the room seemed devoid of air.

“But-” Waylon’s mind froze. They had _seen_ the cult. Tracked their movements into the forest. Seen their real church and smelled the aftermath of it. “We saw them.”

“You saw exactly what I wanted you to see,” Blaire chuckled.

“The patients were right all along, Waylon. He’s been experimenting on them. And what better way to hide the crime than by making up some cult and burning the evidence?”

“Well, aren’t you fucking clever.” Blaire sounded incredibly bored, and Waylon wondered what horrors he was used to if this situation seemed trivial. “Just get on with it, will you?” he said to the other twin, who promptly started making his way up to Father Martin.

With hands tied behind his back, Waylon did the only thing he could, which was to storm him like a football player. His shoulder hit the twin’s chest with a satisfying thump that made him fall back against Blaire. Waylon panted with exertion, feeling dizzy, but smiled when Blaire actually stumbled and had to be supported by Trager. Even more when he realized Blaire didn’t seem too happy to be touched by either of the two.

“You stay the fuck away from him!” Waylon shouted, though it was more a strangled wheeze than something powerful and threatening. His side pulled in a strange way, and he realized he must have opened the wound back up.

The twin put a meaty hand on his own chest and rubbed where Waylon’s shoulder had hit him with a growl. Then he got back up and this time, when he walked towards Father Martin, he backhanded Waylon so hard the force of it had him twirl sideways and fall.

He distantly heard Miles call his name, but things kept swirling in fog, and he realized he was drifting in and out of consciousness. He vaguely heard mechanical clicks before sounds of flames licking wood and then screaming. It felt like a second passed, but when the fog in his mind cleared he realized he had to have been gone for a while, and boy, was he glad for it.

Father Martin was barely conscious anymore, judging by the weak, gargling sounds spilling from his lips. What Waylon had heard was the twin setting the altar and cross on fire, and although the fire hadn’t yet reached Father Martin’s upper body, the smell of burning fat still had Waylon gagging. The heat was brutal, causing blisters to appear and split the priest’s face, his skin hanging like torn paper. If there was a God, then Waylon hoped He would take pity on the burning man and end his suffering.

Waylon squirmed, and realized that Miles was lying beside him, eyes stiffly fixed on Father Martin’s unmoving form. Above them, hidden in the smoke, was the creature from the halls.

“Wha-?” Waylon croaked, but he couldn’t hear what Miles said despite his lips moving. “- wh- that?”

The thing shifted and moved, and Waylon thought he saw shadows and things that couldn’t be there. But still- He tried to fix his eyes on the thing. It kept bleeding in with the surroundings until he wasn’t sure what he saw.

“D’yoj-” he tried to ask Miles, but the words wouldn’t come out right. “S-tha-?”

The creature moved until it hovered over the cross and the dead or dying priest, but at the same time it didn’t seem there at all. More like the shadows and lights and smoke moved in just the right way, because what he saw couldn’t be. Could it? In the hallways it had been easier to dismiss, because he had been alone and frightened. It seemed impossible somehow, in the bright church and in the presence of other people.

He pondered it softly, his head drooping closer and closer to the ground. Maybe it didn’t matter much.

The world was graying at the corners again, pulsing sickly when he tried to keep his eyes open. The smoke was getting thicker, and he knew that this would be the end. There was nothing left here now. His eyes kept slipping shut, despite his efforts to keep them open, and he groaned against the grit on the floor.

Miles kept talking next to him, shoving him whenever his eyes closed, and Waylon was reminded of when they were children, sleeping in tents. Miles never let him just sleep. There was always something to chase in the forests around where they lived, whether it be Bigfoot or missing dogs. Waylon wanted to smile at the memories, but more than anything he wanted to sleep.

“Stuhp-” Waylon breathed, and he found he could no longer keep track of where the shadow creature had gone. It was no longer over the priest, and he couldn’t see the shadowy trail after it either. Maybe it really had been God and He really had ended Father Martin’s suffering, because the priest was slumped very still against his restraints.

Someone or something flipped Waylon around to his back, and his eyelids fluttered as he tried to focus on what he saw.

Blaire was screaming above him. The words were muffled and strange, but the look on his face left no doubts about it. At first Waylon thought Blaire was leaned over him, until his brain registered that it didn’t make sense. He was almost up under the ceiling, limbs flailing, and the shadowy creature swarmed all around him, like smoke and fire.

Blaire fought against it, or tried to, fists pummeling against something that wasn’t there.

Then something happened that Waylon couldn’t quite make sense of. The shadow creature seemed to swell as it surrounded Blaire, then it started disappearing until it was absorbed completely into his body. Then the world went very still for a few heartbeats while Blaire’s face turned swollen and red like a great pressure was building from within.

And then he was no more.

Waylon blinked up at the particles suspended in the air. For a moment it shone like a halo, before the blood and gore started falling down towards them. And for all the time he’d had trouble keeping his eyes open, this was the moment where he could not look away.

It was strange, how slowly everything went. The blood showered down on them, and even though Waylon knew it happened in seconds, to him it felt like hours. He could see light and life reflected in every drop of blood, see it descend down on him like snow.

In fact, he expected it to be cold when it started dripping on his face, but it was warm. It cascaded down on him, but he kept his eyes open, even when the heat hit them. He could taste it, feel the droplets hit his lips and enter through them. The taste was like he remembered from paper-cuts and skinned knees, but hot and overpowering.

It splattered across his face, covering it, slowly at first before time sped up. It was perverse, but for a moment he felt baptized anew, but in reverse. Like he was right back in the car on that day, strapped in and bloody, and without a chance to do a thing about it.

This was it. He had lost his mind. Waylon stared in horror at the mist of blood, like the taste of it had made it all real. He thought he could see faces in the blood, like inky blobs; Lisa and the kids, with kind smiles and ruffled hair, Eddie’s, like it had been in the mugshot, grotesque and swollen and red. But then, before Waylon had a chance to ponder it further, he was flying as well.

He whimpered against the strong hold around his wounded side, head lolling when he caught sight of Miles flying next to him. Except Miles wasn’t flying. He was being carried by the shadowy creature, unless the light was playing tricks on him again.

“Wha-s…?”

And this time, when Miles caught his gaze, there was something comforting there that had Waylon relax against the hold. And with a large breath, Waylon allowed his eyes to flutter shut, choosing to trust the god who carried them out into the light.


	19. Chapter 19

When Waylon woke up, it was to the uncomfortable feeling of an inflatable cuff being tightened around his upper arm, and the insistent beeping of a heart monitor.

He recognized them easily with a lurch in his heart. He had ended up in a hospital after the accident with Lisa and the kids, and he couldn’t stand the smells and sounds of them. He felt transported right back to that horrible evening, where he already knew what the doctor would say when he entered the room.

He lifted his hand sluggishly up to his face and studied the little clip around his finger. He couldn’t quite remember everything that had happened in that chapel, except that Blaire was dead and Father Martin- Waylon shuddered. He had seen Father Martin burn, there was no way he would still be alive. He let his hand fall down to his side with a sigh.

“You’re awake.”

Miles was sitting in a chair by the window, and judging by the red mark on his forehead, he had fallen asleep against it. Both his hands were bandaged, and he had gaze covering his forehead. But despite it all he looked good. Damn near well-rested.

“Wha-?” Waylon croaked, but Miles lifted his hand to stop him.

“Try not to speak. They’re still monitoring your lungs and shit for smoke inhalation. Jesus, Way-” his voice wavered. “Blaire almost killed you. You lost so much blood.”

Waylon moved his hands over to his side, and felt the thick padding of bandages there.

“Where’s-” Waylon whispered. “-Eddie?”

Miles made that face he always made when he had bad news. “No one knows. Police went to question him and his apartment was empty.” He cocked his head. “I’m sorry, Way.”

Waylon sank back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. There was a weird, blotchy stain near the window and he focused on it. “Blaire?” he asked, fully knowing the answer.

“He’s a goner. Smoke inhalation, apparently,” Miles ignored the way Waylon flinched at his words, and laughed. “How’s that for irony, huh?”

His laugh died down and when he looked back at Waylon’s face, he looked more serious than Waylon had seen him in a while.

“He was playing us the entire time, Way, fucking leading us on. After they knocked us out, he sent all our shit to the police. Blaire was already in the process of trying to frame Farther Martin and we certainly did our part to help him out. We really made it look like there really  _was_ a fucking cult.”

Waylon pondered Miles’ words. Events from the burning building played in flashes, some more blurry than others, but he could have sworn he’d seen Blaire turned inside-out by some mythical creature in the smoke. He suspected they’d lock him in a psych-ward if he ever voiced those memories. He studied Miles’ face, but he didn’t seem too concerned with Blaire’s demise, despite probably seeing what Waylon had seen.

Then something else occurred to Waylon. “The fire?”

“One of the test suspects. I guess he was tired of being experimented on.” Miles tapped his bottom lip for a moment. “Nice guy. I nicknamed him Pyro.” He laughed at Waylon’s scandalized expression. “He doesn’t care, man.”

“How we- out?”

“Remember that guy, Walker? Big guy who called me a pig?”

Waylon nodded.

“Fucking saved us. I don’t know how he knew, but suddenly he was there, and-” He scratched his head. “I don’t remember it all,” he admitted, sheepishly.

Maybe that explained Miles lack of interest concerning what had really happened to Blaire. Maybe he just didn't remember. Waylon stared back up at the ceiling. He did remember, though. He distinctly remembered seeing Miles being carried out by that shadowy creature, but then again, he could have sworn he was being carried out by someone else as well. He frowned and creased his forehead. He couldn’t get things to fit together right. Maybe he really had hit his head, and Miles was right. He could still remember the feel and taste of Blaire’s blood on his face and mouth, but if what Miles said was true, then- He cut the thought there. Either one of the alternatives were horrifying.

They had chased after something that didn’t exist for so long, probably wasted so much time and energy and human _lives_ , chasing after a cult when the answer had been something else entirely. They had just been asking the wrong questions. And more than anything else, he worried about the thing he’d seen in the fog and in the smoke. Maybe that ashy creature had been the god he had been searching for all this time.

“It’s gonna be one hell of a story, Way,” Miles murmured, interrupting his thoughts. “I know it doesn’t seem worth it now, but-” his voice trailed off.

“Still don’t understand,” Waylon rasped.

“I know you don’t want to hear this, but hear me out. Murkoff needed test suspects, right? But it was getting far too risky dealing exclusively with the criminally insane like they had been doing. You with me?”

Waylon nodded, but kept his fists bundled up in the hospital sheets.

“So here’s what I think. I think they got an informant at the church. And before-” Miles said sharply when Waylon tried to speak. “Before you say something, the twins? No way did they have the charisma to trick people like that."

“He wouldn’t,” Waylon said firmly. “Eddie wouldn’t.”

Miles stared at him for a long moment, his brows scrunched up, before his face smoothed out.

“Father Martin was trying to help the police,” he said slowly. “I didn’t know it, but he was gathering up information, dead set as we were at uncovering the truth.”

Waylon opened his mouth to say something, but closed it without a word.

“He wasn’t behind it, Waylon, and that doesn’t leave a whole lot of options.”

The heart monitor betrayed Waylon’s feelings, the spiked curve speeding up, and Miles sent an apologetic look his way.

“I’m sorry, man. I really am.” Miles stayed quiet for a moment, his expression solemn as he studied Waylon’s face. “It feels like forever ago, sending you here, and I'd take it all back if I could."

Waylon sank back against the pillow, forehead creased as he thought of the days spent in Leadville. If he was going to be perfectly honest, then he couldn’t say he regretted it at all.

After a moment where Waylon was stuck in his own thoughts, Miles cleared his throat. “I’ll let you rest. I’m gonna buy that Walker guy a cup of coffee, be back up here later.”

Waylon still didn’t answer, but squeezed Miles’ hand when Miles grasped his, and watched him as he left the hospital room. It had been like that since they were kids, Waylon watching Miles as he ran off to do exciting things, while Waylon was never brave enough to follow.

With a sigh, he let his eyes trail to the windows while Miles shut the door softly behind him. It was nearing dusk, and he wondered idly how long he had been unconscious. Then he wondered how Eddie was doing this very moment, and where he had gone. It really wasn’t looking too good, if what Miles was saying turned out to be true, but Waylon found it hard to believe that Eddie would be behind any of this. Not even specifically because of Eddie’s personality, but the fact that he had been a test suspect himself.

Waylon’s eyes found the stain again, and tried to put all his focus on it, because at the moment he felt that if he focused on anything else he’d lose his mind.  


* * *

  
Waylon stared at the x-rays with a frown. He couldn’t really tell one thing from another, but he guessed that if he squinted a bit, then he could make out something that looked like lungs. The doctor seemed to take pity on him.

“When you were committed, you showed signs of smoke inhalation,” she explained patiently. “Because of your initial symptoms, we’ve been monitoring your oxygen levels and blood count. The x-rays came back normal, so my guess is that the cough you’re experiencing is due to superficial irritants, rather than tissue damage.”

“When can I be released?” Waylon’s voice had gotten a slight rasp to it, but at least the pain had lessened some.

“Well, like I told your emergency contact-”

Miles visibly preened at the words.

“We’d like to keep you under observation for another twenty-four hours, and then you may return to your regular physician for further check-ups, but it’s healing nicely. We’ve put you on some broad-spectrum antibiotics and an analgesic, and you’ll have to stay on them for another four days.”

“Analgesic means painkiller,” Miles wheezed helpfully.

“I know,” Waylon answered with a friendly roll of his eyes.

The doctor lingered, probably waiting for Waylon to ask questions. Waylon probably should have some, but he found himself too lost in thoughts of the past days to find the words for everything else, and after a few minutes she excused herself and left.

Miles had spent the past few days loitering about the hospital, and he kept feeding Waylon useful and not-so-useful tidbits on medication and medical procedures. Waylon didn’t want to think about how Miles might have accessed all the information.

In many ways, that part felt like old times. Waylon had been sleeping most of the time, not really wanting to pay attention to Miles or the doctors that kept popping by his room, while Miles ran high and low searching for more people to interview and more cases to solve.

If anything, Miles seemed ecstatic, despite the missing fingers and singed hair. The case had really blown wide open and when he wasn’t telling Waylon about the smell of gangrene or newborn babies, he was writing furiously on his laptop.

The asylum Blaire had been managing had burned almost completely to the ground, hiding whatever Blaire wanted to hide, but Murkoff - “Told ya that name was a clue!” Miles had said triumphantly and for once Waylon couldn’t disagree - was still out there somewhere. Waylon hoped the evidence against them would be enough to take them down, but Miles had been right before. A name change on the company or the drugs they were selling would probably be enough to bypass any lawsuit coming their way. His heart clenched at the thought of William Hope’s mom who finally found out the truth about her son. No one came out the victor of this story.

Well, except maybe Miles. He was hunched over his laptop again, munching comfortably on a sandwich he’d said he bought at a gas station. Miles: The only man alive willing to eat a lobster sandwich from the back of a dingy gas station. The two missing fingers didn’t even seem to bother him anymore. Waylon had to smile.

“You’re pretty great, you know that?”

“Huh?” Miles finally looked up from his sandwich with a glob of mayo smeared on his top lip. “Why you say that?”

Waylon didn’t answer, just smiled at him.

“You’re pretty great too, man,” Miles said, and wiped his mouth with the back of his jacket. “But I gotta say you’re a terrible sleuth.”

Waylon laughed and tossed his empty pudding cup at Miles’ head, and for a brief moment, everything felt fine.


	20. Chapter 20

_My soul is weary with sorrow; strengthen me according to your word. Keep me from deceitful ways; be gracious to me and teach me your law._

He could see it below. The water. It was a giant roaring whirlpool, and he wondered how easy it would be to just let himself fall into it. To let cool water wash him clean, to open his mouth and allow it to consume him. It would be so easy. One step and it would all be over.

Waylon gasped, and pulled back when he realized he was leaning over the ledge, peering at the cement below.

He had thought that the lingering depression he'd experienced these past few years was the worst, or those first few weeks after their funerals when he hadn’t felt anything at all. Then reality had hit him like a freight train and he had shut everything else out, because suddenly there were nothing else that mattered anymore. He had lost hope, then. And here in Leadville, he had gained it back, and something else as well. That quiet desperation of being right on the brink of losing all hope again. Losing everything that mattered, once again. And that, he realized, was the absolute worst of all.

Waylon shuddered, and stared down at the empty parking lot below. Everything had suddenly felt so- He didn’t want to say simple, but he’d gotten this strange feeling being here, that he could do anything. It would be so easy to just let go. He'd felt it since that day with Eddie. That he could just surrender into his arms and jump into that void.

Waylon spared another glance into the proverbial abyss, shook his head and turned back to the door leading back into the hospital.

The stairwell was empty, as it usually was, and Waylon took his time descending it. It was his final day in the hospital, and he realized with a pang he had been at the hospital longer than he had been at the motel. It felt surreal that so much had happened in such a short amount of time. Like a whirlwind, but he supposed most life-changing experiences felt that way.

He felt oddly sedated, here at the hospital. He spent most days dozing, or reading newspapers with detached emotions in the day room. Some days were just spent waiting for the next meal to break the monotony. Maybe the doctors were right in saying that people didn’t fully heal until they were back home.

When Waylon nudged open the door to the day room, he found that someone was already sitting in the spot Waylon had come to consider his own; A secluded area near the back of the room with wide armchairs and a few bookcases with an assortment of books and magazines. It was hard to determine the man’s age, because pink, newly grafted skin covered half of the man’s face, but Waylon realized this had to be Pyro. He stopped dead in his tracks, and almost considered turning around. Then Pyro turned to him, and Waylon knew he couldn’t walk away from it.

One of his eyes was ruined, milky white and staring blindly into nothing, while the other fixed on Waylon with an intelligent stare.

“Waylon Park,” he rasped, but made no attempts to shake Waylon’s hand.

“You must be-” Waylon cut himself off. He couldn’t call the guy “Pyro”, not after seeing the burns extending from his face and down his neck. Pyro just gave him a lopsided smirk, probably guessing his thoughts, before he went serious yet again.

“I probably set you both back quite a bit by burning it,” Pyro said, and leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees. “But I had to burn it. For all of us.” The clear side of his face scrunched up before he added, very softly. “They took so much from us, and very few of us had people like Billy’s mom, who actually cared what happened.”

“I-I’m sorry,” Waylon stammered.

“We were forgotten down there, and they’d never let us go, even if-” Pyro cut himself off. “Anyway, I’m glad Miles is uncovering all of this. And I’m glad you helped him do so.” He looked up at Waylon with his good eye narrowed.

“Did the other patients make it out alive?”

“Most of them.” Pyro didn’t say anything more, and he didn’t seem upset about it. It must have been pretty bad, Waylon concluded, if the downfall of Murkoff was worth the lives of the inmates there.

“Did-” Waylon licked his lips. “Did you know Eddie? Eddie Gluskin?”

“Miles told me you’d ask that.” Pyro smiled, but it wasn’t unfriendly, the skin stretching awkwardly across the raw skin. “Yeah, I knew Eddie.”

He leaned back and studied Waylon’s face, but didn’t say anything more. Not until Waylon started fidgeting, to which he gave a short little laugh.

“Eddie was-” he paused, and seemed to consider it for a moment. “When I first met him, he was pretty sick. He didn’t exactly get better after the experiments.”

“But he was released?”

“Eddie told the doctors what he thought they wanted. Sometimes he got it right, sometimes not, but either way he got pardoned by the state and released.”

“You don’t think he got better?”

Pyro gave him a long, indecipherable stare. “Do you?”

Waylon resisted the urge to say yes right away, considering the question carefully instead.

Despite all the things that could be said of Eddie’s treatment of Waylon, he hadn’t seriously hurt him, at least not physically. Miles had said that Eddie’s record had been clear since his release, and he had even rescued Miles despite his obvious dislike for the man. At the same time, it certainly felt like Eddie’s anger was simmering right below the surface, ready to explode at any moment. But- Waylon swallowed. It never did. He kept thinking back to the softness in his eyes, and the tears that had at one point clung to his dark lashes.

And more than that he thought of what the church had taught him of forgiveness and second chances.

“Yes,” he finally said. “Yes, he got better.”

“Then what does it matter what I think?” Pyro smiled, before he got out of the chair and walked over to the windows instead.

“But you-”

“They say fire cleanses,” Pyro interrupted him, and shot Waylon a sideways glance, before staring back out the window. “Maybe the both of you are clean as well, now.”

Then he didn’t say another word, not even at Waylon’s insistent questions, until Waylon finally gave up and returned to his room.  
  


* * *

  
Miles’ car had been brought down from the forest by the police, and even though Miles had been worried they would impound it as evidence, they had told him to pick it up not two hours later. Miles almost seemed a little peeved that his car was of so little importance to the case.

“I’m telling you, man, this car, she sniffs out trouble.” Miles caressed the chair he was sitting on in a way that would have been disturbing, had Waylon not seen him do it a million times before to his car. A fact that might make it all the more disturbing. “She’s like a dog.”

“So you’re like Turner and Hooch, huh?” Waylon played along while he put the last of his belongings in a small plastic bag the hospital had been kind enough to stuff the rest of his stuff into.

“If you make any jokes about how I’m Hooch, then I’m setting your apartment on fire once we’re back in Denver.”

“Ack, Miles!” Waylon said, and clutched his chest. “Let's never speak of fires again.”

“What? Too soon?” Miles got up from the chair and grinned.

“About four years too soon, yeah.”

“I’m just gonna go get my car and then we can get out of here,” Miles winked at Waylon. “I parked your car outside, so we’ll meet back up at the motel?”

“Sure.”

“Fucking Leadville, huh?” Miles said with a sigh, his hand on the door knob. “Can’t wait to go back home.”

“Yeah, can't wait,” Waylon echoed weakly at the back at Miles’ jacket when he turned to leave, his smile dying on his lips as soon as Miles was unable to see his expression change.

The room seemed entirely too quiet without Miles around, and he walked up to the window and stared up at the moon with a sigh. It seemed like only yesterday when the moon had been like a halo around Eddie’s head, and now it had transformed into a tiny sliver of blue, completely unattainable again.

The parking lot in front of the hospital had gone completely dark, and Waylon realized how different Leadville seemed without the looming threat of a bloodthirsty cult. A week ago he’d feel wary about going into it alone, but now it felt entirely benign. He stroked the edge of the bandage on his waist with a furrow between his brows. He couldn’t tell if Leadville had changed, or if he had changed.

He was almost sad that it was over. Everything still felt so surreal and he wondered if the memories would temper in time; if his feelings for Eddie would ever melt away to the point where they could have passed each other on the street without his heart thrumming. He kind of hoped that wouldn’t be the case. No, he hoped Eddie and Leadville would stay as alive in his mind as the jagged scars undoubtedly would be on his body. If nothing else, then as a pale reminder.

After a few minutes he pulled away from the window and gathered the shockingly yellow bag with ‘patient belongings’ in big bold letters before turning to leave.

This was it.

He signed the release form quietly, ignoring the look the nurse was sending him. He supposed most patients didn’t seem unhappy to leave, but he had enjoyed the excuse to stay longer. A part of him had thought that Eddie would come back for him. To make sure he was alive, if nothing else.

“Safe travels, Mr. Park,” the nurse said gently, and gave him a friendly smile.

“Thank you. Enjoy your weekend.”

Safe pleasantries, empty ones, probably, but he almost felt better as he left for the door. He thought about the lone ride home, about how long and boring it would be, and then he’d arrive back at his equally boring apartment and life. Knowing himself he’d quickly fall back into old routines, and soon the excitement would pass and he’d go back to being himself again. He sighed at the prospect.

The dark parking lot did indeed seem less threatening than before, but he still tried to cross it as quickly as he could. Even if Blaire was dead, and the others under arrest, he still felt like someone was watching him.

Once he was inside his car, he looked through his possessions with disinterest, at least until Eddie’s key chain came into view. Waylon swallowed and fingered the keys gently. One was for his car, Waylon knew, but the others… He made a snap decision and when he started his car up, he drove in the opposite direction of the motel.

The streets seemed emptier than before. Maybe it was because it was finally over. Maybe the people of Leadville were all at home now, thanking God and each other for finally being safe again. Waylon didn’t know, and he felt hollower for it.

He parked on the street outside Eddie’s shop, and quickly darted for the door and fiddled with the keys until he found the right one. He paused, briefly, once the key was in the lock, but finally unlocked it and walked inside.

The bell rang above his head, but the sound seemed off and out of tune, not at all cheerful like it had the first time he was there. Now it felt ominous as it echoed off the walls of the empty storefront. The smell was the same though; that slightly heavy scent of old wood paired with sweet flowers and the pungent smell of mothballs which in time had translated into something comforting and familiar, just like the incense at the church. Waylon shut the door behind him, hearing the mechanism lock into place, and for a moment he kept his back to the door, resting against it.

Even though he had been assured by more than one doctor that his lungs were fine, he still felt strangely fatigued and out of breath. The cuts on his back and stomach would pull every now and then, as a reminder of the past week, but all in all he hadn't felt so bad. Except now he felt like he might be dying. Perhaps it was just the high emotions draining out of him.

Resisting the urge to call out Eddie’s name, he walked over to the cash register, looking over the pristine desk with a frown. If he wanted clues to Eddie’s whereabouts, he suspected he wouldn’t find them down here.

The curtain up to Eddie’s apartment was already pulled aside, a couple of hoops dislodged from the curtain rod, like whoever pulled them aside had been in a great hurry. Waylon stared up at the darkness for a moment, suddenly very unsure of what to do.

In the end his feet found the resolve Waylon himself seemed to lack, and he climbed the stairs carefully. Maybe Miles was right and he should just forget all about Eddie and Leadville, but he had to know. He _had_ to know.

Once Waylon entered the hallway to Eddie's apartment, glass crackled under his feet and he hurriedly took a step back, staring at the floor with his mouth opened in surprise. A frame had been left in the middle of the floor, the glass now cracked like cobwebs, and Waylon's gaze slowly moved from the floor and up to the walls. The framed photographs of landscapes and houses were still in their frames, but more were left barren. All the photographs of the severe looking woman, Eddie’s mother, were gone, the frames left crooked on the wall, some left on the floor. Waylon’s breath hitched a little, and he had to shake his head to break the spell. If Eddie had removed the photographs- Waylon forced himself forward.

The living room was dark, and even though Waylon already suspected that Eddie wasn’t there, he could still feel his heart drop from the sight of the empty room.

It almost had the same feel as the burning sanatorium; Like an echo of warmth and sound were still stuck to the walls. Maybe he was just so finely tuned to Eddie, because he imagined he could _feel_ him. That he could somehow sense that Eddie had been here not that long ago.

A single teacup was left on the living room table, and Waylon walked closer. It was almost full, and he reached for the cup, almost expecting it to still be warm. It wasn’t, the porcelain icy cold against his feverish skin. He sat the cup back down, and spent a moment chewing on his bottom lip and looking around the room. It looked the same. If Eddie had left, then he hadn’t taken anything from it.

It was strange, the first time Waylon had snuck in here he had been so terrified of Eddie catching him. He remembered keeping all the lights off, tip-toeing through the darkness. Now he turned on every single light he walked past, until the entire apartment was bathed in light. Maybe Eddie would be able to find him now, like a lighthouse in the dark.

Waylon laughed at the directions his thoughts had taken, like a lovesick teenager, but the laughter stuck in his throat. He couldn’t find anything about it funny. Maybe not even in time, like Miles had predicted.

Like before he didn’t pay much attention to the kitchen, but he did go into the bathroom. He felt almost compelled to check the things like he had that first night here, but this time he stayed out of the mannequin room. Somehow he didn’t think his nerves were quite up for that at the moment.

The bathroom was spotless, just like the first time he was there, and he opened the cabinet, expecting it to be empty. It wasn’t, the pill bottles lined meticulously with their labels facing out. Well, Waylon rationalized, if Eddie had left, then surely he wouldn’t leave his medication behind. It was almost enough to have hope soar through his chest, and when he closed the cabinet, it was with a smile.

Next was Eddie’s bedroom, and Waylon thought back at the night they had spent there, waking up in Eddie’s arms. Everything had seemed possible then, everything had seemed new and hopeful. Waylon stared at the empty bedroom, at the dresser doors left slightly ajar. He swallowed and walked over to it. The clerical outfits were still hanging in the closet, pristine as always, while he could tell that some, if not most, of Eddie’s regular clothing were missing and his smile faltered.

The boxes that had contained the pornography were now filled with shredded paper, just illegible scraps of what they had once been. Waylon wondered if the picture of the man that had looked so much like himself was among them, but in the end he didn’t want to know.

Where the large, antique doctors bag had been, there was nothing but a few crumpled up photographs, and Waylon didn’t have to unfurl them to know who they were of. Part of him wanted to take them with him so he could burn them. He felt sick knowing what had happened to Eddie, and even more sick knowing that Eddie had kept the photographs all this time. At least, if Eddie really had gone, then he’d left these photographs behind as well. Maybe he was ready to let go of his past at long last and move forward.

On shaking legs he exited the bedroom without a backwards glance to the bed and the comfortable memories it possessed. He sat down in what had become his regular seat by the window instead, and he stared out at the street outside. He didn’t notice, but he was absently stroking Eddie’s rosary with a deep furrow between his brows.

The words Eddie had spoken to him at the motel kept running through his head.

_Then they cried to the Lord in their trouble, and he saved them from their distress; he sent out his word and healed them, and delivered them from destruction._

Maybe Waylon just needed to give praying another shot. He licked his lips, and folded his hands carefully around the rosary beads. Then he froze when he realized he didn't even know where to start or which words to use. So instead of prayer he sat there quietly in place, unblinking and unmoving, until he realized it was, indeed, time for him to leave.


	21. Chapter 21

Eddie was really gone.

Waylon didn’t know how to react to it, or how to breathe around the hole that had opened up in his chest. Instead he quietly drove back to the motel.

That was his reaction to everything, wasn’t it? He was always quiet, passive and compliant. Resigned to a fate that he never wanted, but never fought against either.

Waylon shook his head and forced his thoughts somewhere else as he made a sharp turn for the motel parking lot. He parked near his door, and was surprised to find the parking lot empty when he glanced around for Miles’ car. He checked his cell-phone, only to find a badly misspelled message from Miles saying he’d be a bit later than anticipated.

Part of Waylon wondered if picking up the car had been a ruse, because Miles seemed to know more than he let on. The more Waylon thought about Blaire and his demise, the hazier things became.

He supposed this would be another thing he’d never truly know the answer to.

Then again, perhaps Miles had just found another case on his way to the police station. Knowing Miles, that was the more plausible explanation. Waylon laughed and shook his head.

The evening wind had a slight bite to it, a chill that whispered of the long, cold months ahead, despite summer being far from over. With a shudder that had little to do with the cold, Waylon crossed the short distance from his car to the motel, and opened the door.

Coming back was different then he first arrived. He hadn’t been very impressed that first day, while now he felt some unexpected happiness at the sight of it.

There wasn’t much left in the room to collect, at least not after Miles had collected his things for the hospital. Somehow he had decided that Waylon needed everything he’d brought to Leadville while knocked out and sick. Still, he did a final sweep of the room, gathering up the few things Miles had left behind.

He touched everything on his way. The trusty old water boiler that had served crappy coffee and questionable soup. The sticky, cracked laminate on every surface that tried so desperately to pose as real wood. And finally the bedspread that Eddie, too, had stroked, in what felt like a lifetime ago.

Once he was done, Waylon stilled at the door, casting one final look at the room. It might be run-down and dingy, but for a while, it had been home.

“I guess this is it, Lisa,” Waylon murmured. “Time to go.” He knocked his fist weakly against the wall a few times, and smiled at the empty room.

He couldn’t regret coming here. Not even after everything that had happened. For he realized he wasn’t just smiling at the empty room, but at all the memories of the place, the good ones, and the bad. He’d miss Eddie, but right now, at this very moment, Waylon felt that they would meet again some day, when they had both healed enough to be together. To fully be together at a time when they weren’t two broken pieces trying to fit together despite the cracks and the jagged edges.

Waylon sighed, and turned for the door. He had reached the conclusion now, and it was time to go home, whatever that meant.

Against the brightness of the room, Waylon felt blind for a brief moment when he opened the door into the night. Then his eyes adjusted, and he thought he was seeing things. That his brain conjured up what he most wanted to see.

Because there, in the dark parking lot, stood Eddie.

He was standing under one of the street lights, the light shining down on him, and for a moment Waylon could have sworn he was something more than a man once again. Waylon froze, hand still on the doorknob. Eddie didn’t move, just stood quietly while the wind ruffled his hair and his clothes. Waylon blinked a few times, before he finally started walking on shaky legs towards him, blood rushing in his head. When he got closer he noticed a strange and unfamiliar expression on Eddie’s face. At first Waylon thought he was tired, until he realized Eddie must have been unsure if Waylon would come to him at all.

“Darling,” Eddie murmured, and opened his arms, and without missing a beat Waylon closed the gap and walked right into them.

It was just a single word, but Waylon felt dizzy hearing it. He had really thought that Eddie was gone, and he relaxed against the comforting heat of Eddie’s body.

“You-” Waylon whispered against his wide chest. “You came back for me.”

“I never left,” Eddie said gently, and his embrace was so light it was as if he knew Waylon was injured.

Waylon pulled away and stared up at Eddie’s face, still confused by what he saw there. “You were there, at the asylum.” It wasn’t a question.

“You think I’d let anyone hurt you?” It wasn’t really an answer.

Waylon sank back against his chest, eyes opened wide. “You called the cops, didn’t you?”

Eddie didn’t answer, just tightened his hold on him.

They stood there like that for a long moment, just the two of them. Waylon could hear Eddie’s strong heartbeat, hear it increase in strength when he trailed his hands over Eddie’s powerful back.

“Did you find the God you were looking for?”

Waylon froze. Something about the strangled, breathless way Eddie posed the question and the strange timing of it had Waylon tense up, unsure what Eddie wanted to hear.

“I-” Waylon started, and he realized he couldn’t answer. He had found something. Something that was right on the tip of his tongue, but the words disappeared when he tried to express them. “What happens now?” Waylon asked instead.

“I’ve been thinking about what you asked me, darling, and I think I’m finally ready to accept your offer.”

Waylon stared up at him in disbelief. “You’ll- You’ll come with me?”

“I no longer have a purpose here,” Eddie murmured, placing a soft kiss to the corner of Waylon’s mouth. “My purpose is with you.”

Waylon’s heart did a curious stutter, and he grabbed Eddie’s collar to pull him closer, exhaling in relief when Eddie pressed back against his lips. He’d halfway anticipated that Eddie would pull away in fear of being seen, but he realized that it didn’t matter if anyone saw them. Not anymore.

Instead Waylon marveled in the solid feel of Eddie’s lips against his own, and the gentle restraint of Eddie’s arms around him. It sounded cheesy, but everything felt right again. Eddie felt like home, far more than his real home had these past years.

But- There was more than that. He’d almost had this fragile hope that Leadville could be the new start he had been looking for, and he gently pulled apart enough to look up at Eddie’s face.

“What about Leadville? The church? The congregation?”

Eddie’s lips quirked, but he did not smile. “I’ve lived here my entire life, and for what? They’ve made me donate money and time to the church and had me save their souls, but they’ve never let me be one of them.” He paused, then, and traced Waylon’s lower lip with his thumb. “They want me to live up to their standards, and then demonize me when I inevitably fall beneath them. With Father Martin gone, I have nothing left here.”

“You were never beneath them,” Waylon whispered breathlessly and above him Eddie’s expression changed.

“You’re different, darling, different from all of them,” he murmured. “I knew it the moment I laid eyes on you. You have so much life in you, so much-” Eddie cut himself off and glanced away for a moment, like he was ashamed. “I’ve been around death so much that part of me wanted to stay there with it.”

Waylon closed his eyes and leaned into Eddie’s touch. The words he’d been so afraid to speak felt heavy in his chest, but it still felt like truth every time he was close to Eddie. He angled his face back up to Eddie, and after a soft kiss to his lips, Waylon finally found the courage to speak the words.

“I love you.”

Eddie pulled back, surprise evident in every line on his face, before his face split in a wide, genuine smile. It broke something in Waylon, seeing how happy the words made him, like no one else had ever told him he was loved in the past.

“And I love you, Waylon, my darling.” He swooped his arms around Waylon, clinging so hard to him Waylon had to gasp for breath. “Sometimes it scares me, how much I adore you.”

And after all this time, Waylon saw a different road for him to take, one where he wasn’t alone anymore. For the first time he felt that he might had found someone that would help him back to the person he used to be. Not that he would ever forget Lisa and their two wonderful little boys, but he hoped, in time, that Eddie would help him smooth those jagged edges down and hold him until he didn’t feel so broken anymore. He wasn’t sure how he’d be able to explain it to Miles. If he’d even understand, after everything that had happened. The thought had him pull away again.

“Miles is at the police station getting his car back, but after we can-” His voice died at the sudden shift in Eddie’s expression.

“After that we can what?” Eddie said, and there was something hard in his tone, right below the surface.

“We can go back to Denver, or somewhere else. Maybe we can find a home for ourselves, together.”

“You think Miles would ever let you be with me?” Eddie whispered, and Waylon thought he saw a glimpse of the old Eddie in his features, something cold and far detached from the Eddie Waylon had come to love. “Think he’ll ever look past what I’ve done? He’s not like you, darling.”

“H-He woul-” Waylon started, although he knew fully well that Eddie was right. Miles would never be able to look past Eddie’s actions to the person Eddie truly was.

“I want to whisk you away,” Eddie interrupted him. “Like in the old songs. Just you and me.” Eddie trailed his fingers gently across Waylon’s cheek, like he was the finest china, before leaning down for another kiss. “I want to show you just how much I love you.”

They were standing in the middle of that column of light, and Waylon was filled with elation. Like they were both basking in God’s love, and in each others. He felt drunk, kissing him, breathing him in, feeling those arms around him again. It was madness, but he wanted to go with him. Just leave everything else behind.

Because the simple choice would be to return to his empty and comfortable life, letting himself drown in mind-numbing routines. To resign himself again, to be impassive and weak. But the better choice, perhaps the only choice, would be to jump that cliff, to open his mouth to the baptismal water surrounding him, to join Eddie on whatever their lives would be. Join Eddie despite the things he had done, and all the things he claimed he hadn’t.

Waylon’s heart fluttered as he studied Eddie’s face. “Yes,” he said, and then he said it once more, stronger this time as if he was trying to convince himself. “Yes.”

Was there ever a choice? Eddie’s smile widened and Waylon pressed his face to his chest. Maybe, in all the times he had been too resigned to act, the only reason he had held his breath was because he knew it was the only breath he had left.

But now, with a smile, he took the plunge, surrendering at long last to the roaring water, hoping that this time, this time, someone would be able to fill up that emptiness inside him. Releasing that breath he had been holding, hoping that it would be different this time.

Because, maybe in all this time, what he had found wasn’t God, but salvation for the both of them.


	22. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to be honest and say I'm a little sad that it's over. Part of me just wants to go back and add more, because I've gotten such a strange fondness for this universe.
> 
> I want to thank all of you, for your lovely comments, encouragements and just... You've all made me feel so welcome and I'll never forget that, thank you. I also want to give a special and warm thanks to my lovely and wonderful beta and friend [Hammy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Hammocker/pseuds/Hammocker) for listening to my endless worries about the story, and for (hopefully) making me a better writer. Thank you <3
> 
> (Waylon's prayer, albeit short, was inspired by The Antlers' [Putting the Dog to Sleep](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xg8Ckamh8Gw))

* * *

  
They were on their way home, and as the views changed around him, Waylon finally found the words for prayer.

_Prove to me, God, that I won’t die alone this time. Prove to me that I won’t be buried alive once more. Prove to us that our pasts won't define us, and let us find the home we've both been searching for._

Maybe it wasn’t a prayer at all.

In a fit of melancholy, Waylon trailed the dried blood on the car seat. One final thing of Miles, he supposed, one final thing of that night that changed everything. He wondered if Miles was still smiling now, wherever he was, with his ruined hands and bad sandwiches. He wondered if Miles knew he had left, and if he knew where they had gone, or if he even knew they had gone together.

He had left it all behind, save for the photograph of his family and the fragile rosary from Eddie’s mother. He felt lighter, without it all, even though his heart clenched when he thought of Miles finding the discarded hospital bag in the motel parking lot.

Next to him Eddie was talking. Telling Waylon about a ruined childhood, of a father that crossed boundaries no father should ever cross. He told Waylon how easy it had been to put everything in the hands of a God, even if his faith had gotten frayed along the way.

And finally he told Waylon about his own crimes. And of crimes he hadn’t been part of. Some pieces fit, and others didn’t, but it didn’t matter. It felt like a purge, and Waylon could almost see it being released into the air, like smoke. He could almost see Eddie shedding it all, leaving it behind them. Discarding the photographs was the first step on Eddie’s journey, and now they were taking the rest together.

“I've told you everything now,” Eddie finally said, glancing over at Waylon. “I trust I won't have to ever again.” That slight darkness was back in his voice and Waylon nodded, allowing Eddie to take his hand in his. “We’ll be beautiful, darling. I know we will.”

Waylon scooted closer and Eddie put an arm around him, holding him tightly, like he was afraid that if he didn’t, Waylon would slip out of his grasp. He wouldn’t. Not only did he put his trust in God, he put his trust in Eddie as well.

Outside the car windows the scenery had shifted. Mountains had given way to wide open spaces, lush grass to dirt compacted by a thousand feet. He didn’t know where Eddie was taking them, and he didn’t ask.

It didn’t matter, Waylon decided, studying the profile of Eddie’s face, noting the smile playing at his lips. Eddie seemed happier. Happier than Waylon had ever seen him before. It seemed he was finally willing, or able, to accept the love Waylon was giving him. And Waylon marveled at the fact that he was able to let someone in as well, even if it meant laying his trust in a man who had hurt him more than once.

 _Forgive me, Lisa. Forgive me, Miles_ , Waylon thought ruefully. _But I had to go. And no matter what, even if I could wash away everything he's done to me, even if I could once again be pure as snow, I'd still be his._

Because the bottom line was this; When the walls came down, when everything had crumbled and caved, it was Eddie he had been calling out for.

When he released that final breath, Eddie was the one to catch him.

And he was no longer helpless. He was no longer resigned. He had surrendered into Eddie’s arms, reaching out for his hand.

For this was love; that he’d walk in obedience to his commands. Maybe that was the truth God had wanted to impart him with all this time, until the very end of time.

And for the first time in a very long time, Waylon felt fine.

He felt free.

 

 


End file.
